


Bilberry and a Whole City Full of Dwarves

by Redone



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Cultural Differences, Dwarf Culture & Customs, F/M, Female Bilbo, Hobbit Culture, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-03-09 17:50:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 32,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3258884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redone/pseuds/Redone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Formerly known as the provisionally untitled Bilberry Muffin story. Billa Baggins goes to the Blue Mountains, hoping to find work there among the Dwarves. What she finds is a completely different world, a new calling, a brave knight, and a ridiculous amount of hair everywhere. And maybe something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Note: the title has changed.
> 
> I still have no idea where this story is going. I'm just trying to keep my fingers fresh while I ponder what to do with Cody or whether I should be doing such things at all. The bunny bit me when a kind reviewer dropped the phrase "culture porn" in one of the reviews of my stories. 
> 
> Tags, warnings, etc may change.
> 
> This is completely unbetaed; however, as with the Cody stuff, it has been approved by Darth Daughter.

“Did you pack your winter coat, Billa dearest?”

 

I looked to the corner where my luggage lay heaped all together. The winter coat was rolled up and tied to my backpack, just under a basket full of waybread and dry cheese and nuts and a jar of honey and other food, and atop it all, a fresh apple pie that Mama had baked in the morning just for me, all wrapped in paper and still hot. “Yes, Mama, of course I did.”

 

We were sitting around the table: Mama, wrapped in her plaid, looking grey and tiny and tired and occasionally wracked by coughs; Uncle Isengar, grim and worried; and I. My tea was getting cold, and though the air around us was permeated with the warm scent of cinnamon and baked apples, I was neither thirsty nor hungry. Frankly, I was scared.

 

“Maybe if you went to Bree instead,” Uncle Isengar said to his teacup, not looking at me. “At least that is close enough, I’m sure between us we could dig up a cousin or two who would be happy to put you up. Or maybe one of those Rangers would...”

 

I shook my head. “We’ve been through it, Uncle. Bree is no better off than the Shire, and is by now most probably flooded by Shire hobbits looking for work. There would be little for me to do. And the Rangers are nice and all, from afar, but they’re just so awfully tall. Can you imagine me working in one of their kitchens? Most likely I couldn’t even reach their cutlery drawer. At least the Dwarves are more reasonably sized.”

 

I sighed. The Shire had been facing some difficult times, and many younger people had been moving out, trying to find work elsewhere. Most had gone to the villages in Breeland, some had moved south, to Tookland and beyond, or to the Mannish settlements around Tharbad. Now it was my time to go, for it was getting more and more difficult for Mama and me to get by with what we had, and Mama, of course, was no longer able to work.

 

So I had to leave, and I had decided to try my luck with the dwarvish settlement in Ered Luin.

 

“What will you do there?” Uncle asked. “It’s not like you’ve learned any craft. At least most of those who went through Tookland knew how to work fields and gardens and grow crops. Now, I don’t want to say anything against your father, but he should have at least seen to it that you learn something reasonable. This flower garden that you have is all good and well, but I do not see dwarves growing flowers in their caves.”

 

“Don’t be silly, Gar,” Mama said in her whispery voice. “Billa knows plenty. She even speaks the Elven tongue.”

 

“Well that is the problem!” Uncle Isengar snapped testily. “She is not going to the Elves! She’s going to the Dwarves! Whatever would she do with the Elvish language there?”

 

“But surely, they must have dealings with their closest neighbours, the Elves of the Grey Havens...” I hesitated. I had studied Papa’s maps, many times, but I did not know much about these Dwarves. I supposed nobody did. At least, nobody in the Shire whom I had asked. I had also asked a Ranger, who happened to be stopping at the Green Dragon about a month ago, but he only laughed and said that the Dwarves were known to be a secretive lot.

 

“Have you packed your cardigan, dear?” Mama started again. “And your mittens. These caves are bound to be cold in winter.”

 

“Yes, Mama. And also the blue woollen dress.”

 

She stroked my hair. “Don’t you worry, my little girl. Your Papa taught you everything you need, so you’ll manage just fine. Most of all, he loved you and he taught you to be a good person.” She paused, and then added almost shyly, “Write, when you can.”

 

“Of course, Mama,” I choked out, trying to hold back tears.

 

 

***

 

 

Uncle Isengar decided to accompany me for a few days, because as he said, he had to see the Mayor in Michel Delving for some business on behalf of his brother the Thain, who was elderly and unable to travel. I suspect he actually was accompanying me mainly to see whether I could handle the pony and cart, and to maintain his reputation as The Wandering Hobbit, a notoriety he was milking for all it was worth. Nevertheless I was glad for his company; after all, this was my first longer trip, whereas he had been as far as to the sea and knew all there was to know about Travelling. I felt safer with him.

 

At Bywater we took the East Road, and travelled rather merrily to Michel Delving. The weather was warm and sunny, the rolling of the wheels on the road seemed like a kind of chant, and Uncle Isengar was calling out merry greetings to the hobbits we met on our way. There weren’t many solitary farms or smaller villages along the way, because Hobbits generally preferred to keep away from all sorts of Big Folk who now and then travelled along the Road; so we only passed through Waymoot where the Road branches off southwards, towards the tobacco fields of Southfarthing and further on to lands of Men, before we reached Michel Delving.

 

I had counted on meeting Dwarven travellers along the way, who would be headed to the Blue Mountains. After all, it was well known that Dwarves travelled often, to sell their (unquestionably unparalleled) skills and peddle their metal wares in the lands quite far from their own. But apparently I had not reckoned with the fact that it was just the beginning of the summer season.

 

“Towards the Blue Mountains?” Harro Twofoot, the publican at the Goat & Cabbage inn where we stayed, laughed. “Not likely at this time. They’re all outbound. Why, you just missed a caravan. You should have seen them! All decked in armour and weapons, a sight to see and no mistake. My own old missus could hardly take her eyes off.”

 

Uncle Isengar frowned at this. As we were sitting down for supper, he said, “I had planned to stop here and then circle back to Tuckborough, but I hate the thought of you travelling all alone, Billa-pumpkin. Maybe I should come with you, to see you off safely.” I must have looked very frightened, because he hastened to add, “Not that there is much danger. The roads have been quite safe, after all.”

 

Poor Uncle. I knew I really shouldn’t keep him any longer. He had his own business to do, and I was an adult, and quite able to look after myself, or at least I liked to think so. Besides, as he had said, the road was quite safe. The lands of the Hobbits stretched past Michel Delving all the way to the Far Downs, and among my own people I would surely be safe, welcomed and well cared for. Not very far from the borders, in Tower Hills, began the realm of the Elves of Lindon. I had studied Papa’s maps so often that I practically knew them by heart. And what could happen to a traveller under the protection of Elves?

 

That is what I told him. “I’ll be just fine,” I said, trying to be brave, but the squeak in my voice was really quite embarrassing. “No need for you to spend more time on me than you absolutely must.”

 

“You sure? Because I would, if you felt you wanted me to.”

 

I just patted his hand and told him to be on his way before I regret it. He shook his head, saying I was shockingly like my Mama, which I took as a compliment. I knew it wasn’t true, though. My Mama was the bravest Hobbit I knew; she would never have been so scared of travelling alone.


	2. Chapter 2

After Michel Delving, Greenholm was the last true Hobbit settlement, and even that was somewhat off the Great Road, tiny and poorly with less than ten smials. The hamlet did not even have an inn, so I just knocked on the doors until I found a family who agreed to put me up for the night. They were a young couple just expecting their first fauntling. They were lovely, and the wife made the most wonderful goat cheese; I paid them with a jar of honey from my food basket, and two of my Mama's cake recipes. We had glorious time together.

After Greenholm I no longer saw any round little hills that my experienced eye could identify without doubt as Hobbit smials. If there were any solitary farms, they were most likely away from the road and well hidden. I had to start camping outside. 

The first day when that happened, I found that finding a suitable camping site was more difficult than I had expected. You see, I had been properly lectured by Uncle Isengrim about making generous lunch pauses, giving my pony enough rest and never continuing after sunset. The lands around the Shire are said to be green, fruitful and gentle, but that day all I saw around me were sharp rocks, slopes of bracken and half-dried bushes. The only place where I could lay down without something poking me in the back was the road itself, and I did not want to risk someone overrunning me at night. So I continued well past the usual time of setting up camp until I finally thought I saw a real, proper grass-covered meadow on a hillside, separated from the road by a patch of trees and lilac bushes. I tied the pony to a branch and climbed up to check the place. The sun was already touching the horizon and the slope behind me lay in deep shadow, and I was alternately blinded by the last rays of sun shining directly in my eye and hit in the face by twigs and branches. 

As I pushed the last branches from my eyes, I stared directly in the eyes of a dwarf. A dwarf who... er... had apparently just been relieving himself. Not that I wanted to think about that. No! No, never. I never saw anything! 

For a moment I saw there, petrified, thinking that I really should flee, and all the while he was staring back, apparently just as surprised. He was a rather ugly and terrifying creature, with inordinate amounts of red hair and a humongous beard, and liberally decorated with axes of all shapes and sizes. 

The spell was broken when he yanked his clothing in place and made a step towards me. I was jolted back to my senses and turned to flee when he spoke up.

“Lass! Don’t fear, I shall not hurt you. Do you need help?” In contrast to his voice, which was rough and loud and coarse, his words were kind and his tone surprised but gentle, so I stopped and turned. Still, he was big and strong and armed, and I had left the knife that Uncle Isengar had given me under the seat of the cart. Each step he took closer to me, I backed up. Finally, apparently taking the hint, he raised his hands placatingly.

“No need to flee, little one! Are you lost? Do you need help?”

Embarrassed, I stuttered out. “No! No, sir, I am not lost. Er, sorry, I didn’t mean to... Sorry.” I paused, then blurted, “Only, I was looking for a place to make camp. I haven’t yet managed to find one.”

“What is a little girl doing out alone after sunset? Aren’t your parents worried?”

And that, of course, brought about a discussion about my being a child and what hobbits are like in general. Of course, the dwarf had seen hobbits before, but he did not really know much about us. Which was logical of course, once I thought about it and remembered what I had read in the books: the Dwarves liked to keep to themselves. And, if I was honest with myself, so did we, Hobbits. 

Still, to be considered a child at my age! I’m afraid I was somewhat sharp about it, but he just laughed, said, “Very well, very well, little miss,” and asked whether I would like to share the Dwarves’ campsite. That they would protect me and I would be safe. Of course I remembered my manners by then and accepted most gratefully. So he led me (and my pony and cart) to their camp, which they had set up a little way off the road, hidden from the eyes of passers-by behind a little hillock. 

There were about ten of them, each one broad and strong, wearing furs and armour, all their clasps and buckles glittering in the firelight. They welcomed me, seated me on a fallen tree trunk by the side of one of them and introduced themselves – although I’m afraid that for me, their names just went in one ear and out of the other, so odd did they sound. In my defence I could say that all the names sounded similar, and their growling voices and odd accents made it difficult for me to distinguish between the foreign sounds that cut my ears like a blunt knife scratching on a pan. I am embarrassed to admit that the red-haired dwarf who had brought me into the camp fared no better. In my head I called him Barbarossa, from a book I had read about a king of long ago in a distant land, but in truth he might have been something like Boing.

They were friendly and kind, though, offering me food (and I shared the last of my Mama’s cookies, which were greeted with exclamations of appreciation and praise). After supper, stories were told, and a few merry songs sung accompanied by clapping and stomping feet. Some of the dwarves were sitting over some kind of game that involved little carved figurines.

“Maybe Miss Baggins would consent sing us a song?” the oldest, a white-haired dwarf, asked.

I was somewhat taken aback. “Oh, no, no, I don’t sing! I can’t carry a tune in a bucket!”

“Tell us something then?” they clamoured. “A story, perhaps? About some ancient heroes of your people? Or some news from your land? We don’t hear much from Hobbits.”

“Heroes!” I laughed. “Hobbits have no heroes.” I hesitated. In truth, Hobbits only had one or two who could be called heroes, one of them my very own great-granduncle the Bullroarer, but really, if you had grown up hearing his story before and after lunch, you would also hate it, as I did. I had no wish to tell that particular story, but it was difficult to think of another. Hobbits were in general rather proper people, and to have stories told about you meant you were definitely most improper. The most interesting things to happen were a scandalous and loud quarrel between the two family matrons during a Grubb-Chubb wedding and how Brodinas Bracegirdle, who grew nice and fat carp and sold them on the market, had been cooling his feet in his ponds and hadn’t even noticed that the fish had chewed off all the hair on his feet. Somehow I did not think the dwarves would be interested in stories like that. 

But then I had an idea. As a faunt, visiting my Took or Baggins family, when we young fauntlings had been sent to bed, we had always secretly gathered around a candle, telling each other horror stories, ghost stories, stories of Big Black Hand doing unspeakable things, things that made sweet shivers run down our backs, well, you probably know what I mean. Perhaps I could pretend this was just such a situation?

“Um, would you like a...” I paused dramatically and lowered my voice to a whisper, “a ghost story?” 

They agreed enthusiastically.

“Well,” I started, “perhaps it is a true story, perhaps not. It is said that it happened many, many years ago, before even my grandfathers, to one of the Brandybucks who live beyond the Brandywine River. Well, you see, once upon a time their lands stretched eastwards beyond the Old Forest, and everybody knows the barrows there are haunted...”

And so I went on, telling them a story I had read in one of the books, titled “Dead Man Riding”. Trying to imagine how I had felt as a fauntling, I tried to imitate the haunting voice that we had used: “The moon is shining, Dead Man is riding – are you afraid, my pretty precious?” 

After the dead man was back in his grave, and the woman safe, there was a moment of silence. I suddenly realized that they had all gathered around me, sitting in a semicircle and listening with rapt attention, practically holding their breaths. Even those of them who had been busy with their game, had moved over to me at some point.

I cleared my throat to break the silence. It was as if they had woken up from some kind of magic sleep. Suddenly they were all speaking over each other again, as it had been before; and I must say, the Dwarves seemed to me an awfully loud lot.

“That was a good one,” the oldest of them said, stroking his beard. “Thank you, lassie. We Dwarves love a good story by the fireside.” 

“Oh! It was entirely my pleasure. In fact, I should rather thank you, for taking me in and keeping me safe.” 

“You’re going to the Blue Mountains, you said? Well, if ever you need any help, I and my family will be at your service. Just ask for Balin, son of Fundin, and you’ll find me.” He chuckled. “Or, I suppose, my brother, while I am not there.” He patted me on the shoulder and turned to speak one of the other Dwarves, leaving me to ponder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the Barbarossa was, of course, Gloin.
> 
> "Dead Man Riding" is a known type of folktale (ATU 365). I suppose, living as they did between Elves and the Old Forest, Hobbits would have a slew of ghost stories.


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning we parted ways and the next evening I passed the white Elven tower of Elostirion in the Tower Hills and reached the Elven lands. I was hoping to reach the Grey Havens in another two days, maybe less, for the road was good and ran downhill and was thus easy for the pony. Once there, I would rest for a couple of days and perhaps then I would find an Elvish guide, or anyone really, who would be able to take me to the Dwarven kingdom.

 

At midday I stopped and let the pony graze, sitting nearby on the grass. The night spent with the Dwarven caravan had made me think. They all loved stories – and so did I. I even had a couple of books with me. I had this habit of usually dragging one of Papa’s books with me whenever we went over to visit family for a couple of days; of course I couldn’t imagine leaving home for Valar know how long without a single book! In fact, I had three. And I could write more – I knew could! All those stories I remembered reading, sliding my finger over the backs of the books in Papa’s study, pestering travellers for stories whenever I could catch them, mostly at the Green Dragon, but Mama and Papa had had a few Big People staying over once or twice in my lifetime. One of my best memories was of a tall figure lending me a book of Elven tales! I still remembered the wondrous pictures in the book and the stories were as if carved in my memory.

 

I dug out one of the books and leafed through it, looking at the titles, closing my eyes and thinking back on all these stories. What would I do in Ered Luin with these? Perhaps I could be a ... what? A storyteller? A book writer? Did they even write books? Or read them? Or buy them? _Could_ they read Westron? Or perhaps I could teach them? Or work as a scribe or something? Provided, of course, that they had any use for a scribe who could only write Westron. Or, well, Sindarin too.

 

Of course, I could also cook. And clean. Mind the children, I suppose – but would anyone trust their children to someone whom they did not know? I could sew and mend clothes and embroider, but Dwarves were far and wide renowned for all sorts of work that required hand skills. I had heard tales of bolts of cloth woven with hair-thin threads of pure silver and gold; of robes adorned with pearls and jewels. Could I ever imagine being a match for them?

 

My pony moved closer to where I was sitting and huffed into my hair. I reached out a hand to pat her, but she, clever thing that she was, immediately knew that I must have an apple somewhere about my person. She snuffled here and there, tickling me with her hair, snagging my clothes with her teeth. “Yes, yes, clever girl, Daisy, yes you are,” I laughed, pushing her away.

 

A shriek interrupted us. Out of nowhere a figure jumped on top of me, lifted me up bodily and threw me so that I practically flew through the air, landing on my bottom. Something was hopping madly around me, waving hands and yelling – not me, I suddenly realized. The pony!

 

“What – hey!!!” I screeched. “What do you think you are doing?”

 

That moment another figure ran by me, yelling something I could not understand. He grabbed the mad thing, wrestled him down and sat on him, all the while yelling. As his voice gradually lowered, I realized that he was repeating the same thing over and over.

 

Gradually the mad thing calmed down and quieted.

 

“Are we okay now, Bifur?” the one who was sitting on the other asked, and apparently the grunt he received in response reassured him.

 

Only then did I realize that they were both Dwarves. Normally I did not think Dwarves handsome, they tended to be all angular and had ugly noses and way too much hair, but the one who had arrived later had a pleasantly round figure for my Hobbit sensibilities (well, I _was_ a girl and tended to notice these things!). He also sported the weirdest plaited scarf wrapped around his stomach – wait, was that actually his beard? Well, what did I say about too much hair? Whoever could keep this thing clean?

 

As he turned to look at me – I had sat up and picked up my book from where it had fallen, carefully blowing off pieces of dirt and grass from between the leaves – his eyes widened, and a look of slight worry or panic descended on him.

 

“Bifur,” he said slowly to his companion, getting off him. “You have frightened a lady. We will apologize now.”

 

Taken aback, I watched, holding the book in front of me like some kind of rather ineffectual shield, as the Dwarves knelt, the one who had first attacked me pressing his forehead down on the ground, his pepper-and-salt hair spread out like an eerie fan. He was babbling something in a language I did not know, and for the harshness of the sounds I would have thought he was uttering threats, but for the plaintiveness of his voice.

 

“We are very sorry, Lady,” the fiery-haired one was saying. “We humbly ask your forgiveness. Bifur did not mean to frighten you. Bifur says to – no, you don’t!” he scolded, smacking him upside his head. “The horsey was doing no one no harm! Forgive us, lady,” he turned back to me. “If you want to punish us, punish me! Bifur is a good Dwarf, he is, I swear! It’s just his old war injury – sometimes he sees or hears things. Says he,” here he turned again to listen to the mutterings of the other. “Pardon me, lady – he says he was thinking the beast was trying to eat you.”

 

A tiny laughter bubbled up from me. My old, placid Daisy, eat me? Whoever could imagine such a thing? However, she _had_ been nibbling my hair, so... I decided to take the fiery-haired Dwarf’s words at face value. Carefully I stepped closer, squatting down before the one who was apparently called Bifur.

 

“So you were defending me?” I said in the gentlest voice I could produce.

 

The Dwarf’s hair moved in a way that I could interpret as a nod.

 

“Why, that is very chivalrous of you! Won’t you get up?”

 

He did, but was apparently still too full of remorse to look me in the eye. Now I could see that there was a – what, an axe? – lodged in his head. No wonder one would see things with an injury like that! It was a wonder the Dwarf was still alive, let alone willing to protect others from beasts! That’s what I told them.

 

“My lady is very gracious,” the fiery-haired one said with relief. “I am Bombur, at your service. This is my cousin Bifur,” he nudged the other, “also at your service, Lady.”

 

The other Dwarf slammed his forehead to the ground once again.

 

 “I am Billa Baggins, at your service!” As I reached out a hand to my “knight”, wanting him to get up, to my surprise he did not shake it, but pressed it to his forehead. The one called Bombur kept muttering, “Gracious, so very gracious!”

 

***

 

Before things could get more embarrassing than they already were, I asked them whether they were headed to the famous Dwarven city in the Blue Mountains, and when it came out that indeed they were, I asked them to be my guides, explaining that I hoped to find some work there.

 

There was a third in their company, a young Dwarfling who turned out to be Bombur’s son, called Baldur. The three had been on a pilgrimage of sorts, to see the ruins that remained of the once famous Dwarven city of Nogrod, home of the greatest Dwarven smiths ever, Gamilzirak and Uzagbundâl (*), and Dwarves often visited the place to pray that their Maker would help them become as great smiths as those had been.

 

As they had agreed to be my guides to the Dwarven city – which turned out to be on the northern side of the Gulf of Lune, but not too far, maybe two or three days once we made the crossing, Bombur explained – I allowed them to place their bags on my cart and took the Dwarfling up beside me. He was very proud when I handed him the reins. There was a minor squabble over stopping in the Elvish town, as the Dwarves absolutely refused to do so, but in the end I won out and we stayed in a tiny guesthouse just outside the gates. Well, I stayed; the Dwarves camped outside in the courtyard, which I found somewhat rude, but did not want to say so in the face of my guides.

 

When we were camping out, our nights by the fireside were nothing like the merry night with the trade caravan. For one, these Dwarves here were quiet. We only spoke about things pertaining to our trip and related issues, cooking, the pony and the like; they never sang or told stories, and I did not offer. Bombur usually took care of cooking, Bifur sat by whittling something. I noticed that he was very good at that, as I observed how his fingers moved deftly, forming precise and detailed figures. My personal knight was still very shy and remorseful around me, keeping his head down and not speaking to me. Bombur did some nudging and prompting, but did not manage to bring him out of his shell. Well, to be honest, I was somewhat wary around him too, not knowing whether I should expect another attack, but nothing happened.

 

Little Baldur – well, he just appeared bored. I noticed the adults usually gave him only monosyllabic answers, so he tended to single me out for his chattering. I learned from him that he had another uncle called Bofur, who knew many songs and stories and could play a flute, but that he had not been able to accompany them on this pilgrimage, as he had to work. His Pa did not know any songs and Cousin Bifur had forgotten how to sing. And besides, he added, Cousin Bifur could not sing anything in Westron, but their own tongue was not to be used in the presence of Other Folk. From the way his voice had trailed off and his father’s sharp glance, I suspected he was not supposed to tell me even that much.

 

So I asked, “Would you like to read a story?”

 

The youngster’s jaw dropped and his eyes grew huge. “Read, lady?”

 

“Here,” I fished out my book from my pocket and handed over to him. He took it gingerly, studying it this way and that. “Don’t be afraid,” I said. “You may read. Only, please treat it carefully.”

 

That seemed exactly the wrong thing to say. He practically threw it back to me as if burned. “I shouldn’t, lady.” At a prompt from his father, he added, “Thank you, lady, that’s very kind.”

 

“Can’t read,” Bombur admitted from where he was sitting over the stew.

 

That came as a surprise to me. In the Shire most Hobbits learned to read and write in their faunt years. We were taught by our parents, aunts or uncles or sometimes older siblings, and failure to teach your child was considered pretty serious neglect, even if in later life many of us had barely any use of the skill except to sign their names and send out party invitations.

 

“You haven’t taught him?” I tried to keep the accusatory note out of my voice, but wasn’t entirely sure that I succeeded.

 

“Can’t read either,” the Dwarf admitted. “Not ‘nuff money to pay for tutoring.” He looked at Bifur who was, if possible, hunched even more deeply over his whittling. “He could a little, before his injury. Had meant to teach us, me and my brother. But, well...” He shrugged. “We’re lucky to have him alive, so we do not complain. We manage well enough. Bifur and Bofur always get work in the mines, and I cook in an inn, so we’re fine.”

 

“Cousin Bifur was a clockmaker,” Baldur added proudly. “He loved it, and was good. Now he is making things of wood, because his hands are not so precise. We went to Nogrod to pray for him.”

 

My heart went out to poor Bifur, but what I was most taken aback by was what he had said about paying for tutoring. “Pay? You need to pay to learn to read? But, but it is so simple! Whoever would pay for it? Look!” I found a little stick and smoothed out a hand-sized space in the dirt before me, drawing the letter B. “See? You just have to know the letters, and there aren’t many, and when you put them together, you get words. This here is B. B like B-illa, B-aldur, B-ombur, B-ifur. See, it’s simple.”

 

Bombur was observing me from the other side of the fire, but Bifur and Baldur were bent over with their noses practically touching the scribble. Bifur was tracing the letter with his finger tenderly.

 

“Bi-fur,” he muttered excitedly. “Bi-fur, Bi-fur, Bi-fur.”

 

“That’s right,” I said. “B like Bifur.” I was not sure whether I could read him, with his occasionally-mad eyes and all that hair covering his face, but I thought I saw some longing there. “Would you perhaps like me to read you a story?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uzagbundâl - my invention. I wanted to make a Dwarvish-sounding name for Telchar, which is obviously an Elven name, so I thought Dwarves would not use it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some sheer "culture porn" here. The next familiar dwarf will make an appearance in the next chapter.

Chapter 4

We finally arrived at the Dwarven kingdom. The first signs of settlement were the occasional guard towers along the roadside; then came the dwellings. Low, squat, square stone buildings with high chimneys.

 

“I had heard you Dwarves lived in caves under the mountain, not outside?” I asked.

 

“Oh, these houses are just for small folk,” Bombur explained, “folk that cannot afford a home inside, simple miners, some that do not have a trade, and some that prefer to live outside because of their trade. Tanners and such.”

 

Indeed, as we wound uphill along the road, the tanners’ quarter seemed to be squatting against the hillside just down a sheer drop from us, so that we were more or less even with its tall chimneys. The awful stench of tanning vats hung about us, urine and rotting flesh and rancid oils. It made my eyes water, as I pressed a handkerchief over my nose. Only now and then a gust of wind from the sea carried a bit of fresh, breathable air.

 

“Ugh,” Baldur agreed. “Normally it is not so bad. The winds carry the smell away to the sea.” Bifur mumbled something in his language, and Baldur interpreted for me, “Cousin Bifur says the air staying put means we’re going to have a storm coming in soon.”

 

“Good luck we’re not going to be on the road then.”

 

However “poor” suburbs these might be, I noticed that the road was very well made, even-surfaced and yet not slippery. The sun-warmed flagstones were pleasant under my soles. Also, now that I saw the roofs of the houses below, they seemed sturdy, waterproof and able to withstand storms. It seemed to prove everything I had read about Dwarves as great builders.

 

As we climbed higher, I hopped off the cart to ease Daisy’s burden; Bifur, the shy but caring creature that he had proved to be, tried to help the pony, pushing the cart. The tanners’ district was soon far behind us and the smell of burning oil and coal-smoke became prevalent. Now and then we passed a bakery (fire and fresh bread) or pub (grilled pork fat). There were noises around us, people shouting to each other, metal clanging, coal sellers with their carts moving from house to house, a few youngsters playing some kind of game hopping about and throwing pebbles into squares drawn in the dirt.

 

The gate to the actual Dwarven city stood open. It was big enough for two loaded pony-carts to pass each other, but not much more. There were guards standing on both sides, keeping an eye on all those who passed through. Inside, I saw thick bars of a portcullis hanging threateningly over burning torches; and beyond that, darkness. Utter pitch-black darkness. Logically, I thought the blackness must have been partly because of the contrast with the bright sunshine outside, and as the Dwarves were actually living there, it could not have been so bad; but the thought of stepping into that stifling, sunless, cold, moist air filled with the smells of limestone and lichen, filled me with anxiety.

 

Luckily my Dwarven friends had already offered me a place to stay – at least until I could find something better. Namely, Bombur had recently “moved up” in the society and found a place inside the mountain for himself and his family, so the room in their family house (What? one single room? I had exclaimed, thinking of the smial I had grown up. Yes, it is a pretty big room, Baldur said proudly. And the kitchen’s grand) had been left empty. The whole discussion had actually been started by my unwitting blunder: I had asked whether there were any inns outside where I could rent a room, and it appeared that the phrase “rent a room”, in connection with the inns outside the mountain, had a rather different meaning. I still blushed whenever I remembered that particular discussion, and when we passed what looked like an inn, I tried to pretend not to notice.

 

We rumbled past the great gate, turned down the street and then took one of the narrow, winding sidestreets to the right, and soon came to a stop in front of a house. Bombur grabbed my rucksack, told Bifur and Baldur to unload the rest of my belongings and stable the pony and cart, and led me inside.

 

We entered a moderate-sized room dominated by what my Hobbit eye recognised as an ingenious combination of an open fireplace and a stove. The stovetop was a bit smallish, Hobbit stoves could usually fit three or four pots or pans simultaneously, whereas this one could probably hold a pan and one small pot, but oh I could create such wonderful meals in a kitchen like this...! There was a generous crate of coal beside it (we Hobbits used wood for fire, or sometimes in Northfarthing also peat bricks, but I could see how here, up in the hills, a steady supply of wood might be a problem). A sturdy table and some chairs that looked too heavy for me to move had been pushed against the further wall. There were some shelves and cupboards, apparently containing cooking supplies; a selection of pots, pans, knives and ladles were hanging from hooks on the wall, and with some envy I saw how sturdy, shiny and well made they looked.

 

There was a Dwarf sitting before the fire, smoking and humming a tune around the mouthpiece of his pipe, stoking the burning coals, over which a kettle of water was heating. The Dwarf was wearing a hat, which seemed a bit odd to me, for we Hobbits usually took off our headgear when indoors, but I was in a strange land now with strange people and their strange customs, so I quietly put the thought aside.

 

“You’re late,” he called out without looking at us. “I expected you yesterday.”

 

“Well, we’re here now. My lady, may I make known to you my brother Bofur. Bofur, this is lady Billa Baggins. She wishes to use my old room.”

 

Surprised, Bofur turned towards me bowing and announcing his service to me in the Dwarven way, and I curtsied in response. He had a pair of warm brown eyes, a merry smile on his lips and the wrinkles of laughter in the corners of his eyes, making a funny contrast with the sad droop of his overlong moustache that must have got in the way every time he ate soup. (But then, how _did_ Dwarves eat soup without dipping their beards in?) His brown hair was plaited into pigtails, which curved just as jauntily as the earflaps of his hat.

 

The next moment the kitchen door flew open again and a whirlwind of activity followed. My bags and boxes made their appearance, carried in by Bifur and Baldur, while I was manoeuvred to the big kitchen table and a cup of exceedingly strong tea was plonked down before me.

 

While the adult Dwarves were discussing how to procure the necessary chairs and tables and other stuff for me (for Bombur had, of course, taken most of his furniture with him when he moved to the mountain), Baldur quietly made his way to me with his own cup of tea. I watched with amazement as he picked up a small pot of milk, which had been set on the table, and poured some into his tea.

 

“How can you drink the tea without milk?” he asked.

 

“Oh?” I looked at my bitter and black beverage. “Oh! I had not realized the milk was meant for the tea.” We Hobbits did not normally take tea with milk, but it could not be that bad, surely? I peered into Baldur’s cup where the liquid was of greyish-brown colour, looking hardly more appetizing than mine. “How much do I use?”

 

Baldur poured me some; and indeed, regardless of the unappetizing appearance, it tasted better than it had before.

 

The three adult Dwarves were still not finished with their discussion, so, searching for a discussion topic, I asked my young companion what he did in his daily life.

 

Baldur looked at me with round eyes. “My lady?”

 

“What do you do when you are at home? Are you studying a trade? Apprenticing? Surely you cannot be working already, you seem far too young for that.”

 

“Oh.” He looked down. “Pa is teaching me to cook, but... Don’t know if I can make it to a guild.” He paused and smiled dreamily. “If I could, I would learn clocksmithery, like Cousin Bifur. Or to make musical instruments. You know, violins, harps, the like.”

 

“So why don’t you?”

 

He was somewhat taken aback. “I cannot read, and dad can’t teach me, and neither can Uncle Bofur. And we sure as Mahal’s great can’t pay for a tutor.” I must have looked very confused indeed, for he went on to explain, “You see, to get registered in a guild, you must pass the guild exams. For that, you need to be able to read, at least the Common Tongue. And to write some, but mostly to read. And even if I’d got Pa to teach me to cook, well you see, it’s either you pass the guild exams or you pay the registration fee, which is pretty steep. Pa, he got his fee paid when Cousin Bifur got his, you know, his pension for his injury. They had a huge row about it, you know,” he whispered confidingly. “Pa didn’t want to accept Cousin Bifur’s money, said he got it with his blood, what with not being able to work in his craft after the war.” He sighed. “Nope, I’ll try if I’m any good at cooking. Or I will be a miner. Which is good, honourable work,” he added somewhat defensively.

 

“Of course it is,” I reassured him. “You Dwarves are world renowned for that. Your Uncle is a miner, isn’t he, and so is your Cousin Bifur? And they are damn good ones, I bet. But,” I bent closer to his ear, “if you want to... If you promise to make a good effort... I could teach you, for free, just as a friend. If you want to. And if your Pa approves, of course. That way you could pass the exams and be whatever you want to. Or be a miner who can read. Whichever you choose.”

 

He stared at me with round eyes. “Really?”

 

“Yes,” I smiled reassuringly.

 

“You’d really do that?”

 

“Of course I would.”

 

“But, but, I-I...”

 

“You are my friend, aren’t you, Baldur?”

 

“I hope so, lady,” he said sincerely, still taken aback.

 

“So, what do you say?”

 

He jumped up so suddenly that I nearly lost my teamug. “Pa, Pa!” he yelled, his dwarf exuberance threatening to burst my eardrums. “Pa, Pa, please say I can learn with Lady Billa! Please say yes!”

 

***

 

By nightfall the storm that had been predicted by the awful smell in the tanners’ district had come in. Rain was beating mercilessly at the two tiny thick-glassed windows in my new room; the iron bolt on the house door was clinking now and then as the wind rattled at the door; but I was warm and comfortable.

 

My room was well heated. In fact, I had learned another thing about Dwarven households: their great fireplaces actually had sort of wings reaching into both sides of the house. A complicated system of flues that could be opened or closed as needed carried warmth whenever fire was on in the kitchens, which meant whenever someone was at home. Dwarves did love their fires; hearth-fire was their symbol of home.

 

And there was another thing: they had no beds; they slept on their ovens. They built their oven-tops low and broad and covered them with lambskin, turning them into warm, cosy sleeping-nests. Although it was summer, this place was high in the mountains and open to the winds from the sea, so the nights could get pretty cool, storms or no storms. So I burrowed deeper in my soft furs, listened to the howl of wind and the patter of rain, and felt that my adventure in the Blue Mountains had had a rather auspicious start.

 

After all, I now had my first apprentice in Baldur. In fact, I thought as I waited for sleep to come, it was almost my very first job contract here in the Dwarven kingdom of Ered Luin, because Bofur and Bombur had insisted that I not pay anything for my room for a “grand” service like that. In the end, I had to put down my foot, saying that I would not be a kept woman (a concept which the Dwarves did not seem to understand at all) but all in all, I thought we had come to a rather reasonable agreement.


	5. Chapter 5

I am not sure how the word was spread, but in a week’s time I had three pupils. Well, technically five, if you count Bifur and Bofur who were sitting in on my classes whenever they were not on their work shifts in the mines. There was Baldur, of course, and a youngster from his neighbourhood called Sviur who was aiming for the weavers’ guild, and a young apprentice baker called Austri, who had had some basic instruction but could not write very well. Bifur, when he was there, would sit in the corner, following me attentively and scratching letters onto a wooden board; Bofur had at first said he was just there to keep an eye on Bifur but I told him that if he came to class, he could just damn well participate and that was that. He did not protest too much.

 

Hobbits usually had large families, and normally anything we did, we did in groups. Learning to read and write was one such activity. Anyone who was given the task of teaching, or in fact looking after young faunts while other adults were busy with their day’s work, usually had a pile of sons, daughters (or grandsons and granddaughters), nieces, nephews, cousins and neighbours around. Therefore teaching a whole group was the normal modus operandi for me. And I found that while I had never thought about teaching youngsters as a career, I enjoyed it.

 

We started with letters, one by one, and had a lot of fun finding words that could be written with these letters. We each had smooth wooden boards and pieces of coal for writing; I used mine to give them words and short sentences to read. I noticed as we were learning the D that when I wrote “DAD”, Baldur wrote something else, something that looked like “adad” but I might have misread it. I could not think of a word that it could have been, but from the soft smiles and giggles I thought that it made sense to the young dwarves.

 

Sometimes we finished class with a story. Story-time was clearly everyone’s favourite. It was strange, but also heart-warming to see how even the adult Dwarves (and I didn’t count Austri and Sviur among those, even though Austri was technically a young adult, and Sviur not far behind) leaned forward and listened with such burning concentration as I had never seen among fauntlings.

 

Of all my pupils, it was in fact Bifur who first managed to surprise me. I had set my little class a writing exercise and was busy with Sviur reading a short text when Bifur started making very pleased mumbling sounds in his corner. When I caught his eye, he turned his writing-board for me to see. There, neatly in the middle (the Dwarves did seem to have a very good spatial sense: even if their letters stood askew, they usually kept even margins) stood the somewhat uneven but nevertheless proud BIFUR.

 

“Very good, Bifur!” I exclaimed and Bofur slapped him soundly on the shoulder, joining in with my praises.

 

To my embarrassment, I had not expected Bifur to succeed. I knew that he had lost his writing skills with his head injury, so I had privately thought that the art of reading and writing would be lost to him forever. Clearly I had underestimated his drive to learn and get back what he had lost.

 

Quite obviously pleased with himself, he fished out a somewhat mashed flower from his pocket, stuck it into his mouth and went on scribbling. By the end of the class he had covered his board with a steady BIFUR BIFUR BIFUR BIFUR BIFUR...

 

That evening when Bofur and I were still sitting in the kitchen after the injured Dwarf had gone to bed, he said, “You’ve done a good thing, lass. A very good thing. Haven’t seen my cousin so happy for a long time.”

 

“I did nothing. It was Bifur who did it all.”

 

He just laughed, shook his head and laughed some more. “Nevertheless. We’re all very grateful, you know.”

 

The next morning there was a small nosegay of flowers at my door, with “bifur” scribbled on the floor. Smiling, I put the flowers into a vase and wiped off the floor with a wet rag.

 

Then inscriptions appeared on kitchen appliances: first on wooden spoons, then scratched under the bottoms of pewter cups.

 

“Oh dear,” I said, showing them to Bofur. “I have no idea what we have unleashed.”

 

But he just laughed. “As long as he’s happy,” he said.

 

***

 

Going inside the mountain was still somewhat terrifying for me. I had been inside – technically. After all, just inside the gates there was a spacious hall that was used as a market place. When I had peered in for the first time on my first day, it had seemed awfully black because I had actually been blinded by the summer sun and my eyes could not see into the dark; in fact, the market place was pretty well lit with torches and you could always see the bright square of the open gates.

 

Now, however, I had to venture deeper. My favourite cake tin was broken and I had to find a blacksmith or tinker who would fix it. For how else could I bake a cake for midsummer, a true hobbit-style layered cake with fresh berries and clouds of fluffy whipped cream? And unfortunately the blacksmith working on the market place, they told me, had gone away for the summer months with one of those trading caravans.

 

I would have asked Bifur or Bofur to show me to a smithy, but both had their work shifts, so they were away for the whole day. On days like that they would come home after darkness had descended, bone-tired and covered with a thick layer of soot and coal dust. It was all I could do to prepare a light snack and tea for them, yell at them to bathe properly before they could eat and then sit with them to keep them from falling asleep with their noses in their teacups. No, I had no right to ask them to accompany me.

 

Bofur had, of course, given me directions, but with all the “turn right” and “take the third street on your left” and “take the stairs”, I was somewhat confused. You see, the Mountain was not a smial or a big house or even a castle; there was a whole city down there, with streets criss-crossing on different levels, stairs, bridges (awful bridges crossing over deep dark holes, and no handrails? Honestly, what were these Dwarves thinking?), endless pillars disappearing up to invisible heights, market halls, and hundreds and hundreds of Dwarves. I tried to remember Bofur’s instructions, but soon I found myself hopelessly lost. I had turned right after a fountain, but there were no stairs there; the “third on the left” was a dead end; and the Dwarves who passed me only gave me sideways glances, no one stopped to offer help. The few times I dared to ask someone to point me to where blacksmiths worked, I didn’t manage to get anything beyond a brusque pointing finger out of them, while some of them just huffed, muttered something in their tongue and walked away as if I had not been standing there. I also got the feeling that some of them pointed me in different directions just out of spite, though for the life of me I couldn’t figure out how I had offended them.

 

In the end, though, I was in luck. Following a familiar sound of hammering, I came through an open doorway and there was indeed a smith busy at work. Hesitant to disturb him at first, I stood there waiting for him to acknowledge me, but he did not lift an eye from his work. Even my slight cough produced no results. In fact he did not pay attention to me so blatantly and so intensely that I was convinced he did so on purpose, knowing full well I was standing there.

 

I coughed again. “Excuse me, master smith.”

 

“What do you want?” the master asked tersely, without looking away from his work.

 

“I’m looking for someone to repair my cake tin,” I said. I did not feel that I had done anything to deserve such a snappy tone from him, and therefore I’m afraid my own tone came out shorter than I had intended.

 

Now, that got his attention. He lifted his soot-and-sweat-striped face and I found a pair of blue eyes staring at me. “You want _me_ to repair your cake tin?”

 

“Well, yes,” I said. “I wouldn’t have taken the trouble of almost getting lost in that maze you call a city if I knew how to fix it myself.”

 

He sneered and resumed his hammering angrily, sending sparks flying. A couple landed practically on top of my toes, making me jump.

 

“Hey, watch it!” I yelled. “If you don’t want my custom, I can take a hint, there’s not need to set me on fire!”

 

He looked up and then down on my feet. “You’re barefoot,” he said, clearly surprised. “What kind of fool comes to a forge barefoot?”

 

Really? I mean, _really_? Staring at my well-cared and combed feet and calling me a fool, how rude was that? We Hobbits had always been taught that it would not do to comment on women’s bosoms in the towns of Men, even though human women liked to keep the neck lines of their dresses scandalously low; similarly, you did not stare on an Elf maiden’s ears or touch a Dwarf’s hair. It just was not done. It was as bad as grabbing someone’s rump or – well – staring at a Hobbit’s feet. Well-cared and strong feet were a point of pride for us Hobbits, a mark of true beauty, but they were also... how to put it ... a rather private issue.

 

“Well, _sir_ , at least I am dressed and decent!” I pointedly did not look at his body, naked from the waist up (glistening from sweat, covered only by his leather smithing-apron and leather gloves and way too much hair for my taste, way way too much long black hair all plastered to his shoulders and back. Oh dear, I was not looking. Way too angular and way too hairy, and still _not_ looking.)

 

“It is my smithy, I can run it naked if I want to,” came the petulant retort.

 

“Well, the next time you do, let me know so I can sell tickets on the market place!”

 

He scowled, laid aside his hammer and stalked to me, standing so close that the metal caps of his ridiculously huge boots were nearly touching my toes. “Mistress, I shall forgive your lack of manners this once. Leave before I call the guards.”

 

“Why would you call the guards? It is not like I am any threat to you, master smith, seeing as how much bigger you are,” I said, staring up at him. I barely came up to his chin. “But very well, we shall take our leave, myself and my poor, abused tin. You’d think in a mountain full of famous smithing folk there would be more smiths than one surly lout. And to think that I took the trouble to make bilberry muffins. And just see if you’re going to get any, ha! Now, would you be so kind as to point me towards where I can find a smith who might repair my baking tin?”

 

Bofur had mentioned that among Dwarves the tradition was to offer favour for favour, so to offer a baked item for taking baking tin to fix seemed appropriate.

 

The master smith was still staring at me, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

 

“You really are rude, aren’t you? But I don’t think it is on purpose,” he commented.

 

“Me, rude? Well, sir, that is beyond the pale! You haven’t even answered my question. I’ve been walking around for what feels like hours, looking for a smith, and I end up with one like you, on top of being called foolish and rude. No, sir, I think I’d like to leave now, even if I can never bake again!” The last words were directed at the bloody Dwarf who had rested his big meaty arm on the doorjamb, preventing me from leaving. He was staring at me with his blazing blue eyes, his mouth still twitching and, frankly, this was beginning to feel creepy.

 

I waited for a moment and, as he was still not moving, I snapped. “What?”

 

“Rude,” he said, smirking.

 

“And the same to you. Who do you think you are, the king of this wretched city? Let me go this instant or _I_ shall call the guards!”

 

“Would you first tell me, mistress — what in the name of Mahal is a muffin?”

 

“Wh—What?”

 

“What is a muffin?” he repeated. “You mentioned bilberry muffins. I’ve heard of bilberries, but I’ve never heard of a muffin.”

 

“Let me go.”

 

“I will, if you answer my question. In fact, I will even repair your blasted tin.”

 

“I’ll call the guards if you won’t let me go.”

 

“Do.” He was definitely smiling now – or rather smirking, white teeth flashing behind his black beard. “In fact, I might just call them for you. I’d still like to know what is a muffin.”

 

He was confusing. I was more or less convinced now that he was just teasing, but you could never know. He seemed to be teasing, like my naughty male cousins used to tease me, but we were alone and he was so much bigger... I stepped back from him once again (as he kept coming into my personal space) while he just waited, smiling.

 

“A m-muffin,” I started. “A m-muffin is a kind of... small, fluffy... cake. Mine has bilberries in it. I suppose they call it a muffin because it is kind of... soft and mushy... and puffy.”

 

“Mushy and puffy.”

 

“Well, yes.” I fished out the pastry that I had wrapped in a clean handkerchief. He stretched out his hand, then paused to wipe his sooty hands in his trousers before taking it.

 

“It’s a bread,” he said, unwrapping the napkin and studying the thing.

 

“A cake,” I corrected him. “Well, yes, a bread but... we call this type of bread a cake. Because it is sweet.”

 

“Ah. I see. So, you were mentioning a broken cake tin, mistress? May I see it?”

 

Wordlessly I handed him the item.

 

“I see what you mean,” he said, studying the broken seam. “I can have it ready tomorrow and delivered to you, if you give me your direction?”

 

Still taken aback, I stammered out the required information and gave him the two copper pennies that Bifur had assured me was the proper fee for this kind of work. Still stunned, I walked home as if in a dream.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all the reviewers. I normally do not reply to reviews, unless I have something to say besides many many thanks. That is because the replies would also count as reviews, and I would like to keep my reviews count as honest as possible. :) Nevertheless I treasure each and every review and whenever I feel down, I go back to re-read them. How's that for an ego trip? Ya lovely readers.

The next day I was waiting for a knock on the door, expecting my cake tin to be delivered, but what I did not expect was a visit from what passed for the shirriffs in the Dwarven city. When I answered the door, instead of my surly smith there was a huge, monstrous dwarf. Even his forearms were thicker than Farmer Maggot’s best hams and he was hung full of weapons like a Yule tree. To top it all, he was covered all over in tattoos – even his bald head seemed to have some.

 

I squeaked in fright, but I could not help thinking that this reaction was not a novelty for the Dwarf, for he took it like a normal “hello”.

 

“Dwalin, of the City Guards, at yer service, Mistress. Lookin’ fer Mister Bifur or Mister Bofur.” His voice was low and gruff but his manner was totally relaxed and his face was open and friendly, so I decided he did not present an immediate threat for me.

 

“Oh? Oh, Bifur and Bofur are not at home, sir. They’re at work,” I blustered. “Oh, do forgive me, where are my manners? Billa Baggins, at your service, Mister Dwalin. Can I help you?”

 

“Yer the teacher then?”

 

“Teacher? Well, yes, I suppose I am. Does it matter?”

 

“It might, seeing as you might have a part in it. Come along, if it please, Mistress Baggins.”

 

Now I was shocked and worried. I grabbed my coat and followed after the guardsman, half jogging to keep up with him. “Please, Mister Dwalin, where are we going?!”

 

“Ye’ll see,” he grunted, not breaking his stride. “Not far now.”

 

We weren’t even in the mountain when he stopped for the first time, pointing at a wall by the roadside, saying, “Tha’s the first.”

 

There, proudly displayed on the grey background of the wall, stood thick, black letters, still somewhat crooked despite all the practice that my erstwhile knight had been getting recently: BIFUR.

 

Mister Dwalin led me on, and sure enough, on the street corner there was another scribbling, this one unfinished: BIFU. As we went on and on, most of the way to the entrance of the mines where Bifur and Bofur worked was marked, on the houses and walls and flagstones: Bifur bifuRr BIFURBIFURBIFUR Bofur Birfuuff BBIFUR.

 

“Goodness gracious,” I said. “He has been more enthusiastic than I had anticipated. Is he in much trouble?”

 

“Not as long as he washes it off by tomorrow eve,” the city guardsman allowed graciously.

 

“Thank you ever so much, Mister Dwalin, that is ever so generous of you. Bifur was so happy when he rediscovered how to write his name.” I sighed, thinking of the big task ahead. “You are right, I think I may have had a part in this mischief, for which I am very, very sorry. I guess I’d better go fetch soap and a brush and get cracking.”

 

“Hmm,” Dwalin huffed. “Perhaps.”

 

He shuffled a bit, and I got the impression that he had something else on his heart. So when we were walking back – because he insisted on seeing me back home, gentleman that he was – he became more talkative.

 

“Yer a teacher.”

 

“Yes, Mister Dwalin. You know that.”

 

“Ye teach letters.”

 

“I do. Naturally, not Dwarven,” I hastened to add. “I teach Westron – and, well, and I suppose I could teach Sindarin and the Tengwar alphabet to those who want, but so far no one has asked.”

 

“Ye speak Elvish? What’d ye learn that for?”

 

I shrugged. “My Mama taught me. She was friends with some of them – particularly with Lord Elrond of Rivendell. Lord Elrond has some of the most wonderful books,” I sighed longingly.

 

“We Dwarves can make pretty books if that’s yer cuppa tea,” he got somewhat defensive.

 

“I am sure you do. I’ve heard about the beautiful things you Dwarves can make. Does this city have a bookshop? Or a library?”

 

He recommended the Scribes’ Guild if I wanted to buy any books or writing material; for a library apparently there were just the royal archives.

 

“Nothin’ as grand as what we used to have, mind ye,” he said. “Just the official documents and what few of the lore books we managed to save from destruction when we escaped.”

 

“Escaped? I remember tales that a long time ago many Dwarves were moving westwards, but...”

 

“Yeah. We’re the exiles. Well, many of us are. From Zeslulabad, or what you would most likely know as the Lonely Mountain.”

 

“Never heard,” I confessed honestly.

 

“Well never mind then, Mistress.”

 

Thus amiably chatting, we arrived at my lodgings. However, when I turned to say my goodbyes and repeat the promise that the walls would be cleaned, I noticed that he appeared to be... shuffling once again indecisively, if someone of his terrifying appearance could be shuffling.

 

So I asked if he wanted a cup of tea and wasn’t really surprised when he accepted. When we were both sitting at the kitchen table, with steaming cups before us, I decided to find out what it was about. For a moment I debated how I should approach the matter. Hobbits usually asked outright, we were not people who liked to mince their words. I knew Elves liked to dance about, exchanging courtesies, giving hints and referring to similar cases in their abundant legendarium. I had no idea how Dwarves acted; Bifur seemed a rather straightforward bloke, from what little I could understand him, and if anyone I knew was blunt, it was Bofur. If Bofur thought my skirt was ugly, for example, he would tell me so. I knew, because it had happened once. (Upon which Bifur the Knight had risen to the occasion and whacked Bofur so hard that I had squeaked in surprise and shock, but the two dwarves had simply laughed and hugged each other. Apparently Dwarves had much harder heads than any other race with whom I was acquainted.)

 

So, I decided not to waste any more time and to get to the bottom of it.

 

“So, Mister Dwalin. How can I help you?”

 

The Dwarf hemmed and hawed for a moment, looking around in the kitchen as if expecting some help. “Yer a teacher,” he said finally.

 

“I am.” We’ve already established that, I thought.

 

“Ye managed to teach Bifur to write.”

 

“Well. Well, he is not yet quite that far, but yes, he has made an excellent start. I am very proud of him.”

 

“Frankly, Mistress Baggins – ye see, Bifur is an old comrade. We all thought he, that he’d be... that he’d never...” he stuttered to a stop.

 

I waited.

 

After a moment he seemed to collect himself. Drawing a deep breath, he said quickly, “Well, ye see, there’sthisfriend...”

 

It took me a moment to puzzle out what he had said. “You hope I can help a friend of yours?”

 

He shrugged.

 

“What exactly is his problem? Does he also have an old injury?”

 

“No!” he growled angrily, but then toned it down. “No, no injury. I don’t know. He got all the best tutors an’ all, and still... It’s just, ye see, the letters, they... they get all mixed up in m... Thing is, ye see, Mistress... Uh, I can’t really explain!” he threw his hands up in frustration.

 

I thought about it. “I think I have heard of people who find reading more difficult than other people,” I said then carefully. It was true: one of our tenant farmers, an old man named Deepburrow, always had his letters read out to him by his wife, and later by his daughter-in-law. Also, on my visit to Rivendell I had heard Lord Elrond discuss such cases. “Do you think your friend might be one of such people?”

 

Dwalin shrugged. “Might be.”

 

“I have heard that this could be due to very many different reasons, and manifest in various ways. I can’t say with any certainty whether I can help your friend unless I talk with him first.”

 

He nodded, squirming in his chair.

 

“And even then,” I cautioned, “it is very likely that I can be of very little help, if any at all.”

 

“I understand,” Dwalin said. “Ye’d not be the first.”

 

Well, wasn’t that flattering? I decided to see it in a positive light, though. “In that case he is very brave not to have given up.”

 

Dwalin perked up.

 

“Will you tell your friend to see me at his convenience?”

 

“Er.” The Dwarf’s nose and ears had turned an alarming shade of red. “Thing is, mistress... Ye see... Yertalkingto’im.”

 

I opened and closed my mouth several times before any sound managed to escape. “Oh. Oh! I see. Well. As long as you remember what I said – shall we go and see?”

 

He nodded warily.

 

We went to my room, which doubled as my schoolroom. Dwalin followed me docilely. I pointed him to one of the desks and spent a moment to leaf through my books.

 

As soon as he started to read, the problem became evident. He was hesitant, stuttering out syllables, mixing up letters, and came to a stop with a rather vehement exclamation that was most definitely not part of the story he was supposed to be reading.

 

He looked as if he was ready to throw the book to the corner, but in the end just pushed it away from himself, hiding his face in his palms. A steady stream of Dwarven curses flowed from his mouth – while I couldn’t speak their language at all, the curse words had become oddly familiar, thanks to Bifur. The poor injured Dwarf was often just as frustrated with his inability to communicate as Dwalin seemed to be at the moment.

 

I laid a calming hand on his arm. “Do not give up,” I said. “This is just the start. You were doing fine.”

 

“Fine!” he scoffed.

 

“Well, not technically, but you are trying, and that is always a good thing. You came here to do something about it, so don’t give up now. Look at it as a visit to a healer, where you have to, khm, disrobe. Here you also have to show a weakness, and to a stranger, no less. But I need to know more before I can form an opinion.”

 

“What else is there but that I am a bloody... failure!”

 

I gasped. “Who told you that? You most certainly are not! Tell me who told you so, and I’ll.... I’ll... go and whack them with my frying pan!”

 

That brought a huff of bitter laughter from under his hands.

 

“Don’t dismiss a hobbitess and her frying pan!” I said with mock severity. Then I patted him once again consolingly and gave him a moment to calm down, while I scribbled out several sentences on one of the wooden boards that we were using in my classes. Once finished, I shoved the board under his nose.

 

“Read that.”

 

As expected, the strict teacher-like tone worked. He was a warrior and apparently used to following orders. The hands came off his face and with a sigh he set out to read.

 

Very simple and short sentences like “I am here” seemed to pose no problems. However, “frolicking tadpoles” or “a luncheon with entertainment” did not want to come out at all. “F- for-...foril-” he stuttered.

 

“Okay. Let’s try it syllable by syllable.” I covered most of the text with my book.

 

“Fr... For... li... lick... i...ng. For licking?”

 

We tried many other things, until I seemed to hit on something. I had written “a pat on the back” and what he came up with was “a tap on the back”. So I warned him that I would write several very short words, some of which would have no meaning, and told him he should just try to read them. So I wrote a list composed of nonsense and real words, some the right way, and some backwards, and some even with letters facing backwards, and in my estimation the success rate was roughly the same in all cases. Some he read correctly, but for example “art” came out “rat”, “ilk” was “lik” and the like.

 

“Hmm,” I mused to myself. “Do Dwarves sometimes write right to left?”

 

“No, never.”

 

“In that case... let us try something.” I took one of the books – which seemed to make Dwalin somewhat nervous again – and my tiny eating knife. I placed the knife on the book and said, “I will move the knife, and you try to read out the words as they are gradually revealed to you, letter by letter.”

 

He nodded and we started.

 

I had heard of languages, far in the south, in which words were written differently than they were pronounced; luckily all the languages of Eriador were sensible in this respect: we wrote the words as we spoke and heard them. Must have been the influence of the Elves, my Mama had once said.

 

“In ol-d-en t-ti-im-es ... In golden times? Old-en tim-es ... in olden times...  the.. re – there live-d a ki-... a king who-se da...,  dau-gh, daugh-ters, daughters, were all beau-ti-ful, but the you-n-ge-st...”

 

We went on for another minute or so, managing almost half a page, but then I signalled for him to stop. “How did it feel?”

 

He shrugged.

 

“Did you notice something?”

 

“I—I think it was easier like that, with the knife,” he admitted.

 

“But did you understand the text?”

 

Yet another shrug.

 

Okay. He was feeling like a tween. I could deal with tweens, I had lots of experience with my numerous younger cousins.

 

“I think your eyes are not sure whether to read left to right or right to left. They would prefer right to left. Are you left-handed by any chance?”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Do you prefer your left hand when you write? When you, um, in a fight, use your weapon?”

 

“I use both hands!” he said proudly, gesturing with his thumbs at his pair of matched axes.

 

I gave up. “Very well. You see how using that knife improved your reading? Perhaps it was because it forced you to read from left to right. I think we should try again next time to see whether that really works. But now you must be really tired – you’ve done really well today. Will you be able to return tomorrow?”

 

“Yes—yes, of course, Mistress Baggins.” He smiled somewhat shyly, but there was a most definite note of relief in his voice. “I thank ye for yer time and effort.” He bowed low before me and practically ran out from the schoolroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frankly, I know nothing about dyslexia or any related conditions. Let us just assume that it is Dwarven brains that we are dealing with here?
> 
> Also, if you want to see a very nice smirking Thorin, check out my daughter's (old) pic at http://archiveofourown.org/works/962349. It is an illustration to a story by Anchanee, but whenever I write about Thorin smirking, that is what image I have in mind.


	7. Chapter 7

 

Cleaning the walls was no child’s play. I scrubbed and scratched with all my might until my fingers were raw, but the whitewashed walls were very reluctant to let go of the last shadows of coal. Bofur and Bifur were there, of course, as were all three of my young students. Bombur had stepped by briefly, but he had to prepare the food in time for the evening rush-in as a shift in the mines ended and many miners made their way to pubs and alehouses; so he could not stay long.

 

Bifur, the poor thing, was very much chagrined and unsettled and tried repeatedly to get me to lay down my brush and just sit there prettily. Of course I told him in no uncertain terms to shut up and get back to work, upon which he redoubled his efforts.

 

Dwalin surprised us, although not by pitching in himself: instead he dragged two slouching figures after him, dropped them before us and stuck brushes practically into their faces, telling them to move their behinds and get on with it. As both wore tunics bearing the rune that I knew symbolised the city guard, at first I thought they were his colleagues; but it came out these were a pair of petty criminals – thieves and card cheaters and the like. Dwalin told them that they would be free if by the end of the evening they brought him a written note signed by me and witnessed by these good, upstanding Dwarves here, saying that we were satisfied with their work. And if they made a run for it, they would each lose a hand and an eye when they were caught near Ered Luin again.

 

“Mind ye, I’ll recognise the Mistress’s handwriting,” he warned the two. “Not that either of ye bastards can write.”

 

“Not like _you_ can _read_ ,” muttered the younger of the jailbirds, who sported the most ridiculous three-pointed hairdo I had ever seen.

 

Dwalin turned puce at that, but before he could reply, I whirled upon the Dwarf, hands on my hips. “You’d be surprised,” I snapped waspishly. “Anyway, less bla-bla, more action!”

 

I can’t say that the two were very eager, but neither were they complete slouches – Dwalin must have put the fear of their Aulë in them. Also, the truth is that more hands make quicker work, so we did manage to complete the work in one evening.

 

After we had finished, I prepared the required note (and found a short letter in the doorway, saying that the blacksmith had come by and not found anyone at home. Botheration. My cake would have to wait).

 

“Is it true that you’re a teacher of letters?” the one with the ridiculous hairdo asked while I was writing.

 

“Yes.”

 

“How come you are working here, outside the Mountain? Surely you’d get paid better in there.”

 

“Because I choose to,” I replied, busy making sure that my letters had particularly nicely and evenly curved tails. “I have friends out here.”

 

“What letters are those?”

 

I looked up to see that he was fingering one of my books, the one about geography.

 

“Sindarin.” Seeing his blank look, I went on to explain, “This means Elvish.”

 

“You can write Elvish?”

 

“Whoever would want to learn that?” the other jailbird, Tveggi, put in.

 

“It is a beautiful language. Besides, it was Daeron, an elf, who invented the letters that you Dwarves have taken over and adapted for your use.”

 

“Surely that can’t be true...?” Bofur looked startled at the very thought.

 

By then I had finished my note and that put an end to our discussion. “I, Billa Baggins, hereby testify that the Dwarves Tveggi and Nori have completed their assigned task (cleaning) to my satisfaction. Signed, Billa Baggins. Witnessed by: ...”

 

Then I handed the note to Bifur and Austri who both were very proud to sign. We had to cast lots who would get the honour; the other “good, upstanding Dwarves” among us would each get a muffin from me as a consolation prize. The two jailbirds got their release note and disappeared with it into the night.

 

 

***

 

Dwalin appeared the next day as he had promised, after I had finished with my regular students, but it was clear that a lifetime of bad experiences had made their mark. Dwalin was not accustomed to the thought that a text could make sense. As with all beginners in the art of reading, I had him read out loud, so that he could hear the words; but when I asked him what the paragraph he had just read had been about, more often than not he had no idea. _I_ could more or less make sense of the story he was reading out loud, but for himself, for all intents and purposes he might just as well have been singing tra-la-la-lolly. Nevertheless, I could see that the idea with the knife had been a good one – with a little effort the words came out right. At least it seemed to be a step in the right direction.

 

After a relatively short while I noticed that Dwalin was starting to fidget restlessly and decided to end the lesson for the day. Maybe he was just distracted. Maybe he had other problems to deal with. Maybe the story was not to his liking: it was about a little Hobbit girl going to see her grandma and meeting the Big Bad Wolf, and I had hoped that the warrior in Dwalin would want to see whether the girl escapes, but perhaps I had not made the best choice.

 

However, I could see that he was definitely not a hopeless case. What Dwalin needed most was practice. After all, nobody had ever learned to read in a day, and it was wrong of me to expect such a feat from him. What I needed to do was to find something that would motivate him. I needed to get him interested, to see that reading could be fun.

 

We passed a minute or two chatting amiably about last night’s occurrences (the two criminals had indeed turned in and presented their note and were by now probably back in the city, doing their dastardly deeds) and he promised to come back next week.

 

On his way out Dwalin almost ran over another Dwarf who was standing at my door, a hand raised for knocking. He came to an abrupt stop.

 

“You! What in the name of...” – “Dwalin, what are _you_ doing here!” the two voices rang out simultaneously. The surly blacksmith – for that was who the visitor was – took a surprised step back, but Dwalin grabbed him by the front of his cloak.

 

 “Oh no! If ye think for _one_ moment that ye can just slip out again—“ and he shook the other Dwarf.

 

“Dwalin! Dwalin, stop this!” I shouted, getting between them, trying to separate them ineffectively. “I’ve no idea what you have against him, but I’m sure Master Blacksmith was just bringing me my cake tin. Weren’t you?” I looked demandingly at the latter. He just nodded quickly, looking somewhat taken aback at finding Dwalin here – or possibly at being found by Dwalin; I did not know which.

 

“Master Blacksmith?” Dwalin sneered, looking at me and then back at the other Dwarf. “Ye haven’t even introduced yerself, have ye, Thorin? How rude of ye.”

 

“What a relief that someone agrees with me!” I exclaimed.

 

Dwalin laughed out loud at that. “Ye’re a lady of discerning taste, I can see. Now, this unmannerly wretch here—“

 

“I can speak for myself, _thank you_ , Dwalin,” the blacksmith growled. He pushed down the hood that had partly hidden his face, and bowed before me.

 

“Thorin, at your service, Mistress Bilberry Muffins.”

 

“Billa Baggins, at yours and your family’s,” I curtsied the proper response. I couldn’t help looking him up and down though. “You _do_ own some clothes, I see.”

 

“And you still go about barefoot.”

 

“Well of course I do! As any Hobbit would! Boots—the very idea! Hmph!”

 

Dwalin observed us with a raised eyebrow, staring at me and then at Master Thorin. “Now what was it I heard about a cake tin? Let’s see it then.” He grabbed it from Thorin before I could take it and studied it thoroughly before handing it over to me. “Thorin here may be a complete cad, but he does acceptable smith work,” he admitted.

 

I made a point of studying my cake tin. I noticed he had stamped it with his own master mark.

 

“Mistress Bilberry M... Mistress Baggins makes most odd sweet little breads,” Thorin was informing Dwalin meanwhile. “She calls them muffins.”

 

I rolled my eyes. It was not like the Dwarves did not have a concept of sweet things; but it was true that during my stay here I had not yet seen a true cake or cookie or muffin sold in the market. Their nut, rosemary or sesame rolls were all very nice, but surely, with their extensive travelling, they would have come across a muffin somewhere?

 

“Sweet breads?” Dwalin’s eyes lit up.

 

“And very nice ones too,” the blacksmith, Thorin, bowed to me once again.

 

“Oh, so you liked them? Would you like me to bake some more? It would only take a little bit of time, but you are very welcome to wait, if you like.”

 

In fact it was Dwalin who was the first to plop down at the kitchen table. He said it would be irresponsible of him to leave me unguarded in the presence of such a rude scoundrel as Thorin; in truth, I suspect it was the magic word “sweet” that decided it.

 

It was well known that Dwarves were quite handy with fire. They knew how to get the oven to heat up quickly at just the right temperature for a cake, or a stew, or a quick and sharp roast. Whenever Bofur and Bifur were at home and I was cooking something, I simply had to tell them what kind of fire I needed, and really, it was like magic! Like pushing a button. (Really, what a ridiculous idea, to have buttons on a stove, what good would they do? Still, I was grateful that I had such expert help at hand.)

 

So I just called over my shoulder for them to heat up the oven, while I went to the pantry to pick up eggs, flour and milk.

 

“You see,” I heard Thorin complain behind my back, “she is constantly ordering me about in a very rude manner.”

 

“Ye deserve it,” came Dwalin’s clipped reply. “Now, ye heard the lady. Heat up the oven, ‘Master Blacksmith’.”

 

Soon enough we were seated around the table with a muffin each (lemon flavour this time) and the ubiquitous cup of black tea with milk. Dwalin was practically groaning over his share, as he munched it with an open mouth, his beard full of crumbs. I would have been shocked at his table manners, had not the weeks with Bofur and Bifur alerted me that it was the way of Dwarves. Well, most Dwarves apparently – Thorin seemed to be an unusually fastidious eater, compared to others I had seen so far. I bit my lip and traded looks with Thorin and he flashed me an unexpectedly charming grin over his cup. Suddenly I felt oddly warm.

 

“Rude,” he mouthed, pointing his chin at Dwalin.

 

I giggled and replied in the same manner, “Very.”

 

“So, Dwalin,” he spoke up after the guardsman had licked the last crumbs from his plate, “you never said what you were doing here.”

 

“Not yer business.”

 

“You aren’t courting the lady Bilberr... er, lady Baggins, are you?”

 

Dwalin’s scowl turned thunderous. “As I said, none of yer concern. And if you’re thinking of any funny business...”

 

“It’s nothing like that,” I tried to diffuse the situation. “I’m just a teacher.”

 

“A teacher?”

 

Something like panic flitted over Dwalin’s face, so I told the blacksmith about Bifur and how his exuberant happiness had brought the city guardsman here. Apparently the blacksmith knew of Bifur too, having been in the same battle where the latter had got his head injury. He said something about Bifur being a brave and mighty warrior and the regrettable injury; but when he came to me being very generous to the poor Dwarf, I waved him away impatiently.

 

“Now, enough of that; don’t make me blush. I’m just doing what a proper teacher should.”

 

“Aye,” Dwalin said, “yer all right.”

 

Soon enough our little repast was over and Dwalin grabbed the poor smith again by his coat and dragged him to the door. “Time to go, I think, sir.” And Thorin went with him docilely, even though I suspected he could have given the burly guardsman a run for his money.

 

On the door, though, he turned to me once more. “I hope, Mistress Muffin, that you’ll find me again whenever you need a blacksmith,” he said with a grin.

 

“Oh, certainly,” I said in the same vein, “if I can find you in that maze you call a city.”

 

He shook his head. “Still rude. You are supposed to praise my skill and admire the beauty of Dwarven city at this point.”

 

“You just want to have more muffins.”

 

At this point Dwalin had enough. “’Nuff flirting,” he said and dragged the blacksmith away.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mainly Billa's "ethnographic studies" again. Master Blacksmith will make another appearance in the next chappie, because I decided to cut this one in half and his scenes are in the second part.

Mersday – called by the Dwarves rather unromantically Sixth-day – was the biggest market day in the city. On that day even those who usually plied their trades elsewhere – in their own workshops, like jewellers, or out in the fields, like grain growers and goat herders (yes, Dwarves actually did have those, what viable community would not?) – came to the city market to sell and buy. Of course on that day the market spilled over, from the huge hall inside the gates to the nearby streets and also to the area just outside the gates.

 

Goats and sheep were corralled into makeshift pens, butchers were hawking their best pork cuts, chickens screeching in their cages, coal sellers running about with their wheelbarrows so recklessly that it was a wonder they did not overrun somebody. Huge baskets full of cheeses and fresh, mouth-wateringly plump breads, barrels of pickled cucumbers, mushrooms, carrots, cabbages, apples and what-not; rolls of cloth, piles of beautifully ornamented crockery, silverware and kitchen knives that would have made Lobelia Bracegirdle weep with sheer jealousy. I stopped to look at their fine metalware: the needles produced by Dwarves were thin, smooth and sharp, much better than the Hobbits’ bone needles; their scissors could cut through the thickest and most stubborn of cloth just as easily as paper. And their clocks and watches! They came in all sizes from tall grandfather clocks to finely carved mantelpiece clocks to the finest pocket watches with golden chains that any gentlehobbit would be proud to wear on Highday strolls.

 

There was something I had noticed early on during my stay though: compared to what you would find on a market in Hobbiton, here in the Blue Mountains the food was quite expensive. We had hoarded up a dozen or so eggs to sell on the market (Bifur and Bofur kept five chickens in their back yard) and for two eggs I could buy two such wonderful sewing needles that would be the envy of all Hobbiton matrons, plus several rolls of colourful thread. Oh the embroideries I could create with these!

 

Dwarves were really amazing creatures – just look at all the things they could make! Their houses, their roads, their amazing ovens were just some examples. They had stone in abundance and being exceptional builders, even the poorest of them seemed to have a weatherproof roof over their heads. They mined coal (mostly; miners complained about it often enough, because their Dwarven souls yearned for other, more precious things), which meant that heating was cheap in the Dwarven city. In their ingenuity the Dwarves had even set up a unique system of “far-talking booths” in different points of the city, which were directly connected to the city guardsmen, so that if there was any problem, the guard could be alerted quickly.

 

But Dwarven poverty, unlike that of the Hobbits, meant mostly dearth of food. And then there was also the fact that Dwarven diet seemed to consist mostly of meat, which was naturally more expensive than vegetables. It was not that they did not eat vegetables at all; but their attitude was expressed in a nutshell in a very Dwarvish word, one that I had not heard before: “cucumberish”. Dwarves did eat their potatoes and turnips and carrots – as side dishes to their meat, naturally. Cucumbers (or what they called cucumbers; any Hobbit would have told you they were really a species of summer gourd) were despised as a particularly watery type of food. So, to be “cucumberish” meant, among Dwarves, to be so poor that you could afford hardly any meat.

 

***

 

Walking around in the market place, I came to a stop before a stand of glassware. Dwarves were beyond compare in their glassmaking skills. Their beakers, cups, vases, plates were so thin, clear and bright that they looked like frozen air. I barely dared to touch them, thinking they would break into a million pieces if I so much as breathed on them, but the merchant just laughed. He poured water into two of the tall goblets, touched them together and they made a wonderful pure, clear chime like the silver bells in Elven cities.

 

I picked my jaw up off the floor and went back to look for Bifur. Namely, we had set up a small table on the market. Selling eggs was just an occasional bonus, but what Bifur and Bofur often did on market days was selling toys. I had known that the two could whittle, but I had not really realized before that they were excellent at it, particularly Bifur. They had created wonderfully detailed, finely painted figures of all sorts of beasts, horses, wolves, Men with swords and bows, Dwarves wielding hammers, even some fantastic creatures like a horse with a spiralling horn on its forehead or a series of little piglets with funny little moving wings. My favourite piece was a little yellow-painted pony pulling a two-wheeled cart where sat a tiny painted girl-doll. If I suspected that this was Bifur’s impression of me, I did not say anything.

 

Bifur’s stand seemed to be rather popular among the younger generation of Dwarves: there were always young, hairless faces standing around us, gawking and pointing fingers at this or that toy. Some of the youngest of them, especially, seemed to enjoy the little winged piglets. These had a little wheel mechanism in them, so that if you rolled one of them on the table, its wings started beating, clack-clack-clacking, causing the little ones to squeal with delight. Of course the young ones’ happy laughter encouraged some of the proud Dwarf mothers to lighten their purses.

 

I saw a couple of boys studying one of the Man dolls. Both boys seemed to be too old to play with toys, especially the older of the two, a blond-haired lanky thing with the first fluff on his cheeks; but then, that particular toy figure had a fine sword that could be pulled from its scabbard and attached to the toy figure’s hand. I could see why the boys would be fascinated.

 

“Do you like him?” I asked kindly.

 

They stared at me with huge, startled eyes but did not say anything.

 

“Do you know who that is? His name is Ëarnur,” I said, taking the doll and turning it in my hands. “He is a mighty warrior. He defeated the Witch King himself.” I told the tale about how the Witch King had beset all the lands in the North and how Ëarnur of Gondor had come with his troops and turned the tide. Of course, I said nothing about the sorry tale of the Witch King’s challenges, because for an eminently sensible Hobbit like me, the pride of Men and their constant need to prove their supremacy were just ridiculous traits that forced them to do stupid things. These two young Dwarves had no need for such tales, or Yavanna forbid, they might take them as an example to be followed.

 

So I wove the tale, with appropriate embellishments, taking into account the audience (which meant a lot of emphasis on battles and sword action with the doll) and all the younglings and even some adults around us stood at rapt attention, trying to catch every single word.

 

When that story was finished (and the doll sold), I took up my favourite girl-in-the-cart and told them a story about a Hobbit lass who went travelling and was beset by a rabid beast who wanted to eat her and how she was in the end successfully rescued by (I took a rather nicely coloured dwarf doll with a huge hammer and a blue coat) a mighty Dwarf warrior. Bifur chuckled and added a word here and there in his Dwarven language, which I did not understand but which invariably seemed to make the audience laugh out loud.

 

At some point when the sun was already turning towards the West, there was a commotion all over the marketplace: many Dwarves flocking together, voices raised in merry shouts. Everybody around us, all the customers and the sellers of the nearby stalls and shops, poured towards the main market hall. “Uzbad, uzbad! Long live the King!” they cried.

 

I had heard that the Dwarven city had a king. They called him “Uzbad” or something equally outlandish. He was rather popular and occasionally appeared in the city among simple folk, being greeted with loud shouts wherever he went. Feeling curious, I ran after the rest of them, jumping up and down and craning my neck to get a better view as the royal entourage marched past. Hundreds of Dwarves lined the streets and it was not easy to see through all that mass of wide bodies and thick hair. Eventually much to my embarrassment Bifur noticed by quandary, sank to one knee and gestured for me to climb up on his knee. I protested, saying that it was his king, not mine, and it was more important for him to see him, but he just patted his knee impatiently. Thus balancing precariously, my hand grasping his hair, I was able to see some of the pomp and glory.

 

There was a posse of Dwarves, the Royal Guard, all tall and broad and proud and clad in bright bronze armour, polished so that it practically glittered in the torchlight. Their halberds and axes looked downright menacing, but the Dwarf-folk around me seemed to find it utterly glorious, judging by their yells and waving.

 

Surrounded by the guardsmen there was a tall figure clad in red velvet, with his steel-grey hair and beard decorated with gold and silver ornaments. He had only one eye and wore a jewel-encrusted golden eyepatch. He nodded and waved as he walked by and the folk in the streets yelled and screamed and stomped their feet: “Uzbad! Uzbad!”

 

So that was what a king looked like.

 

As the Hobbits did not have kings, and neither did Breeland or Rivendell, it all seemed very exotic to me. Imagine that, a real king! I thought that if I were ever to write a book about the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains for my fellow Hobbits, I would definitely include “hang around in the city on market days and try to catch sight of the king as he walks by” as one of the sights worth seeing. Meanwhile, I joined the city’s populace in yelling enthusiastically, “LONG LIVE THE KING! LONG LIVE THE KING!”

 

Just before I jumped down from Bifur’s knee, I thought I saw a familiar face from the corner of my eye – looked like my blue-eyed blacksmith – but the next moment he was obscured by the cloud of someone’s flow-away hair, and then I couldn’t find him in the crowd any more.

 

After all this hullabaloo there was no proper and peaceful trade to be made, as everyone was too high and restless, so Bifur dragged me off to Bombur’s for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, now I'm afraid I've upset some of my good reviewers' theories. :) But I do have fun with your ideas and I do appreciate all reviews and reviewers!
> 
> Also, "cucumberish" is not my invention, you can actually find it in Regency slang. To be cucumberish means to have no money.


	9. Chapter 9

Mistress Hlothyn’s pub where Bombur worked as a cook was a popular stop for a hot meal and cold ale. After a lively market day it was packed with merry Dwarves, reverberating with raised voices, laughter and songs. An acrid cloud of tobacco smoke hung under the ceiling, laced with the mouth-watering aroma of meat grilled over open fire. Two grey-haired males were playing violins in a corner and a small but nevertheless exuberant circle of young Dwarves was hopping around to the tune.

 

Bofur chose the perfect moment to appear and, pulling the brother card, was lucky enough to find a place for us at a small table, me pressed between my both hosts. We shared the table with Sviur and his would-be master from the weavers’ guild, as well as a few other Dwarves whom I did not know. Soon we had our meals before us, sizzling hot slabs of bacon and fresh rolls of rosemary bread with a side of pickles and onions – ah, Bombur’s cooking, a Hobbit could fall in love with that! Of course the famous brown Dwarven ale was flowing freely.

 

The master weaver, who was sitting opposite me, was a silver-haired, soft-spoken and generally polite sort of Dwarf who ate unusually daintily for his race (once again reminding me of a certain blacksmith – what was wrong with me?) and shared my love for tea that was actually a potable, aromatic drink and not the sort of liquid tar that went for tea here in the Blue Mountains. We hit it off at once and the master – his name was Dori – told me about various tea sorts and flavours that he had encountered on his travels. He also told me – leaning over the table and hiding his mouth with a hand – that it was actually possible to obtain decent teas from the nearby Elvish settlement of Grey Havens. Apparently despite all the Dwarvish disdain for anything Elvish (which was heartily reciprocated by the Elves, if I knew anything about them), they did have occasional trade relations. Well, I thought, how could they avoid it – being neighbours as they were?

 

The talk of the day was, naturally, their king.

 

“I’ve never seen a real king before,” I confessed. “But why didn’t he wear a crown? Aren’t all kings supposed to wear crowns? In the stories they always do.”

 

“He only wears the crown in the Throne Room,” Master Dori explained. “And then, of course, he wears his War Crown when he goes to war.”

 

“Uzbad!” Bifur roared, raising his mug of ale in toast, and everybody around us followed enthusiastically.

 

From a city guardsman seated beside Master Dori I learned that it was the current king who had actually found a place for the exiled Dwarf-folk of the Lonely Mountain (“Uzbad!!!”) and, arriving here, had put an end to the constant warring between the local Dwarf groupings (“Uzbad!” again, of course) and opened new mines so that everybody’s situation improved. Apparently before the arrival of the exiles, the local community of Dwarves had dwindled and degenerated as good, skilled workers were killed in the constant infighting or old masters died without having anyone to whom they could pass on their craft. The new blood from the Lonely Mountain, learned and skilful and desperate to settle down once again, had essentially saved the Blue Mountains settlement from extinction.

 

“May Mahal’s hammer shield him forever!”

 

“Uzbad!”

 

“Aye, he’s a fair and just king, can’t complain,” Master Dori agreed.

 

Bifur added something in his language and everybody laughed. For my benefit Bofur translated. “Bifur says that it’s sad that His Majesty didn’t pass on his good looks to his offspring.”

 

“Good looks?” I said. “But... But, he looks old!”

 

Everybody around me roared with laughter. “Not old – majestic! Kingly! The shade of true steel in his hair, the lines of wisdom in his face! And the features of a true son of Durin, harmonious and strong! Now, Uryad – the crown prince...”

 

“An axe-face if ever I’ve seen one!”

 

“And sadly the young princelings seem to take after him, instead of their grandfather!”

 

“The prince is a great warrior and commander!” Bifur put in (with Bofur’s kind translation).

 

“True! He hacks his enemies to pieces with his long and sharp nose!”

 

“Still, with these looks, no wonder he’s yet unmarried,” an old, wizened miner put in.

 

“Er,” I nudged Bofur, “what exactly is an axe-face? What does it mean?”

 

The reply came from all of them. “His nose looks like the bit of an axe! Sharp! Narrow!”

 

“Elvish!”

 

“Eww.... Let’s not speak of Elves here, lads!”

 

“As sharp as his battle-axe!”

 

“To Axe-face Oakenshield! Uryad!” Once again we drank.

 

My head was by now somewhat buzzy and I was trying to imagine what an axe-faced Dwarf would look like. I thought about Hobbit lads whom I found comely. They had, without exception, nice, regular, fine features; definitely none had a potato-shaped nose adorn his face, the likes I had seen here among the Dwarves. And the good-looking Hobbit boys were well shaved and kept their hair cut tastefully short. I realized that the notion of male beauty might be very different between Hobbits and Dwarves.

 

It may have been the ale talking in me when I blurted it out, adding, “Who would you say is the most comely among you here?”

 

The reply came without hesitation. “Are you blind? Can you not see Dori here? Those deep eyes, full lips, and oh, I would die for a nose like that! And the hair! Pure mithril! It’s downright shameful, so much beauty in one person!”

 

I looked at the said Master Weaver, and secretly thought that Bofur with his warm brown eyes and dimples looked more eyesome. Or maybe even Bifur with his salt-and-pepper hair and dramatically contrasting braids in his beard – well, he wasn’t handsome as such, but he was definitely interesting to look at. If only he would do something to contain his wild hair.

 

Sviur noticed my smirk. “Ah-hah! Mistress Baggins prefers Mister Bifur here!”

 

I blushed and protested and Dori smacked his would-be apprentice, reprimanding him for his lack of manners, and Bifur growled something, which made Sviur bow and scrape to me repeatedly in order to apologize, until I told him, “Sit down, boy, for Yavanna’s sake, I am not offended,” and with that the topic seemed to be exhausted.

 

The two violin players who had made a short pause took up their instruments again and Master Dori was asked to dance by the guardsman. Sviur left to bring us another round of pints. Bifur tried to tell me something which involved a lot of arm-waving and a repeated “Bifur, Bifur”. Bofur just laughed and refused to translate, until finally Bifur fished out a piece of coal from his pocket and scribbled on the table top, “Dans bifur”.

 

I patted his hand. “Bifur, dearest, you don’t scribble on other people’s tables!” (Not that my remonstrance seemed very convincing, what with all the things carved with knives into the table top! And there were drawings there too, and some of them somewhat... uh... explicit.) “And, we will speak about your spelling in our next lesson.” I wiped his writing off with a napkin. “Now, come on, let’s dance then!”

 

The musicians had taken up a merrier, faster tune and the dance circle had disintegrated into smaller groups. As soon as we reached the dance floor, Bifur started to jump around like crazy, kicking his feet and spinning around. For a moment I was somewhat taken aback, letting Bifur essentially drag me along. But then, as far as I could see, the others were doing pretty much the same; none seemed troubled by insignificant things such as the rhythm, for example. So I just hopped and kicked with the rest of them and all in all had a very good time.

 

After a couple of dances I was done for. Exhausted. Completely worn out. So I told Bofur and Bifur that I would be heading home. They immediately rose, ready to accompany me; but I knew they had not yet spoken with Bombur who had been busy in the kitchen all this time, and they wanted to, very much. So I just waved them off, telling them that I was a big girl, regardless of my size, and could find my way home just fine.

 

So I tottered merrily along, picking my way carefully so as not to hit my toes on some odds and ends that had been left lying about after the market day (Ow! Dratted Dwarves. Sadly I was not always successful) and not to stumble into one of the other folk tottering similarly about.

 

Somewhere near the Great Gate of the city I realized I had actually picked up some company. It was a tall Dwarf, wrapped in a blue-grey cloak with a deep hood, and if possible, his feet were weaving an even more convoluted way than mine. Nevertheless he caught up with me, most likely simply because his legs were longer.

 

“Aha! My dear Bilberry,” a deep bariton slurred. “A very pleasant night to you, madam!”

 

I peered under the cowl. “Good evening, Master Thorin. Shouldn’t you be heading home, in your state?”

 

“And you shouldn’t be walking alone. What are these two ne’er-do-wells thinking, leaving you unaccompanied? Someone might accost you, there’s lots of drunken Dwarves around tonight.”

 

“Yes,” I said dryly, “I noticed.”

 

Thorin laughed and admitted, “True. I’m foxed.”

 

“You’re not foxed, sir. You’re just plain _drunk_.”

 

“As Mahal’s own sow,” he agreed genially. “May I see you home, madam?”

 

“I’d rather you not, if it’s all the same to you.”

 

He ignored my tone and hooked my arm through his. “I’ll just... These damn cobblestones are not standing still! Flighty as Elves!” He veered towards one side of the street, while I tried to correct his path somewhat. “I’ll just see you safely... My Bilberry. Muffin. So you’ll not have to worry. Protect you from all the drunken sods. Cause I’m a Dwarf of Honour. Yes.”

 

He continued telling me extensively about his great honour until we reached my house. I opened the door and turned to tell him to go home, but with the unwavering rudeness of all Dwarves, he made a (somewhat crooked) beeline to the kitchen table and plopped down on one of the chairs.

 

“I’ll just rest a bit if tha’s a’right,” he informed me, plopped his head on the table and was off like a light.

 

I shrugged, left him there and went off to my room to sleep.

 

***

 

I woke up next morning to raised voices from the kitchen. Rubbing my eyes, I wrapped myself in a warm shawl to see what the noise was all about.

 

Bifur was standing near the table, his arms crossed like he often was when he felt put upon; Mister Dwalin was standing near the door, mirroring Bifur’s posture, while Bofur stood between the two, reading Mister Dwalin the riot act, something about invading his home without his permission, being dishonourable and untrustworthy, after all we have womenfolk under the roof, and someone needed to learn some respect and that he, Bofur, would take some obscure matter to the king. I can’t say I understood half of it.

 

And there, half hidden behind Bifur, was a Dwarf slumped over the table, black hair fanning out, snoring loudly.

 

“Wha—Who’s that? Oh... Oh, he’s still here? I’ve no idea how he can still be asleep with all your racket.”

 

That brought the argument to a sudden stop. All eyes turned to me.

 

“Lady Billa, do you mean to say... you let him in there?”

 

“Yes of course! Well, to be honest, he rather invited himself. He insisted he’d see me home and then just came in and fell asleep. I thought he’d be long gone by the morning.”

 

“But, but...” Bofur stuttered. “Do you not know him?”

 

“Of course I know him. He’s Thorin, the master blacksmith who repaired my cake tin. Bofur, you should remember – you gave me directions to the smiths’ workshops. Although I can’t say your directions were very clear.”

 

Bofur’s jaw dropped. He took off his hat and wrung it nervously. “ _He_ repaired...? Lady Billa... er. I can’t see _him_ working in the Halls of Iron. You must have gone... to the royal forges, maybe.” He looked at Dwalin, but the guardsman just crossed his arms and smirked.

 

I shrugged. “So he’s something of a licensed royal smith? More like a royally drunken arse.” I gave a look at where he was soundly asleep, a pool of drool forming under his cheek. “And I still have to clean the table after him.”

 

Bifur growled something angry-sounding, grabbed a kitchen knife and stuck it smack dab through one of the black, beaded braids fanned out on the table, upon which Dwalin rounded on him, growling in their language. The only thing I could understand were Bofur’s shouts, “No, Bifur! No! You take that back! You must not.”

 

I wrapped the shawl tighter around me, elbowed my way between the warring factions and, for the sake of precaution, pulled out the kitchen knife. Master Thorin snorted, mumbled something, turned another cheek and slept on.

 

“Will someone explain to me what the trouble is?” I asked the three.

 

There was some hemming and hawing and growling in the Dwarven language, but eventually Dwalin grunted that Mister Bifur had thought to call Thorin out and cut off his braids for his slight of me.

 

I opened and closed my mouth for a couple of times. “Uh... Is this something you Dwarves do on such occasions? I mean, we Hobbits, we don’t see getting drunk as much of an offence, really. You see, we do love our parties and good food and drink and merriment, so such things happen... But really, men who do not know their own measure just make fools of themselves. And he did not molest me in any way. Well, except being generally exasperating, but I don’t think that’s a crime?”

 

“Being ungentlemanly to a lady, that is certainly an offence!” Dwalin said. “No honourable Dwarf would ever do that!” Bifur nodded seriously.

 

That made me laugh. “Oh yes. I seem to remember how he explained to me in great detail how honourable he was. But I do thank you, Bifur, for standing up for me. You really have always been my knight, haven’t you?” I patted his arm absent-mindedly, my mind already on other, more pressing things: here I was, up and about, and hadn’t yet eaten anything. Well if that wasn’t positively un-Hobbitish of me. If I went on like that, I would run the risk of becoming a Dwarf! “Boys, first breakfast, anyone? Light the fire and I’ll see about some tea and toast, how’s that sound?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Foxed" used to mean drunk in the Regency era slang.  
> And now you also might have some idea why Billa has no idea Thorin is a prince.


	10. Chapter 10

The thought of what to do with Mister Dwalin’s reading exercises was constantly on my mind. After the first breakthrough things seemed to have come to a standstill, there was very little progress. Again and again, the only way forward that I could see was that I had to make him practice reading – I mean, real reading. Reading a story that would make sense to him and that he would _want_ to continue reading. Something that would make him want to know what would happen on the next page.

 

And for that, I needed to grab his attention. But how?

 

He was a warrior and a city guard. Would he like stories about ancient wars and mighty heroes? The problem was, Hobbits had no such things as great heroes, nor were they very fond of such stories, so I did not have any in my storybook. Elves certainly had them in abundance, but for some reason I did not think a proud Dwarf such as Dwalin would be keen on Elvish histories. He had mentioned the best of tutors, so he clearly was from a well-to-do family, and I guessed those tended to be rather less open to Elves than, for example, Bifur and Bofur here.

 

Moreover, I did not have any books about Elvish heroes with me. I had a book of Elvish love poems translated to Westron, one of Hobbit folk tales, and a Sindarin book on the Lands and People of Eriador, which I loved because it contained several maps. I could not, however, imagine that it would instigate Dwalin to read.

 

I thought of composing something – a short story of four or five pages, perhaps? It wouldn’t be my first time to make up a story, or even to write down one. However, I could not figure out for the life of me how to write a battle story. Hobbits didn’t do battles, at least not the normal Hobbits – meaning, those who weren’t Great-uncle Bullroarer Took. Maybe I could do just a small thing, a story of a brave Hobbit youngster – or Dwarf youngster – who saved the life of a pretty damsel? Like, saved her from drowning?

 

Or... did it have to be about anything remotely heroic really?

 

Then an idea hit me.

 

Could I? Would I dare? I knew Elves had a few of such stories – in fact that was what had given me the idea in the first place, as I had stumbled on one of them in Rivendell in the possession of an Elven minstrel called Lindir – but I had no idea how a Dwarf would see it. Or whether it would be acceptable.

 

But for the moment, that story was really the only idea that I had. Setting my cup of tea aside, I brought out a sheaf of paper and sat down to write feverishly, all the while giggling to myself. Words flew from my quill as if by themselves and before I knew it, I had put a final dot on the paper and sought a needle and thread to sew the whole thing together like a proper book.

 

When Dwalin arrived, he seemed very satisfied with himself. Proudly he presented a strip of gold, beaten thin and flexible, and of course bearing a very neat geometrical ornament punctuated by precious stones. All in all a very Dwarvish-looking thing, if you asked me.

 

“My reading strip,” he said by way of explanation. “Wouldn’t do to bring a greasy kitchen knife to old books and such.”

 

Well, I had not expected such an attitude from someone like Dwalin, but it must have been the education of the upper class showing. “That’s very nice,” I praised, studying the thing. “Now shall we practice?”

 

And we did. I picked up the book of folk tales and my own little creation, making a show of choosing between them. Then I pointed at a passage from my opus and gestured for him to start reading, while I picked up a knitting-work and took a chair a bit further away.

 

He had not yet discovered the concept of reading silently. “He w-wa-n, wan-ted to ki-iss h-er so bad-ly h-e th-o-u-ght he-d di-e of the thi-rd, no, th-thir-st...”

 

No reaction. Oh, wait, there came a hesitant glance towards me. “Go on, go on, I am listening,” I waved my hand at him.

 

He coughed and went on, stuttering and stammering and generally making a muddle of things. “... ne-g-lec-ted t-o te-ll her how goo-d she f-felt in h-is ar-ms. Lu-sh and cu-rv-y un-d-er his han-d-s, and her mo-mouth so sw-eet and wa-rm...– Mahal’s balls, Mistress Baggins! Ye can’t make me read something like _that_!”

 

A-ha! So he _was_ actually following what he was reading! “Don’t you like stories like that?” I said slyly. “I thought to give you something to read that you’d like.”

 

“It’s not, it’s not...” His ears were quite red and he avoided my eyes, his hands flapping in an odd pattern. “I can’t! Out loud! With yerself here, Mistress!”

 

I smirked. “Ah. Well then, would you like to borrow the book to practice reading? When you’re finished with one, you may come back for the other,” I pointed at the book of stories. “Or any of my other two books, really. The main thing is to practice.”

 

As I had predicted, my own opus disappeared very quickly into Dwalin’s pocket, with a murmured thanks that was barely comprehensible. Our lesson was very short on that day.

 

***

 

It was high season for wild berries, so whenever I could, I went down to the woods on the lower slopes of the mountains to pick whatever I could find: wild strawberries, raspberries (the summer had been quite dry so far, so the raspberries tended to be somewhat worm-eaten, but Bifur seemed to delight in them), bilberries and even the first cowberries. The woods were farther than they had ever been in the Shire, and upon return I had to climb uphill the whole way, but the line of jam jars on the kitchen shelves growing longer by the week more than made up for it. Not to mention all the muffins and pancakes.

 

Bifur decided to accompany me, as it was his day off. The day was warm and sunny, grass stalks tickled my toes, swallows circled high up in the sky promising good weather, and on the horizon I thought I could see the glittering of the Great Sea. Swinging my basket, I made my way downhill, Bifur stomping behind me, alternately humming and whistling, though whether it was a song or just tuneless noise, I could not tell.

 

At some point he picked up a white flower – wood sorrel that was fairly abundant here – and handed it to me. I laughed, accepting it, then picked up a leaf and handed it to him.

 

"Try it, it’s edible."

 

I picked a few for myself and chewed, enjoying the fresh, tart flavour. Bifur seemed to like it too, for he fell upon the green clover-like leaves with gusto; he made frequent detours to the nearby patches, until I got impatient, susceptible as I was to the relentless call of the berry woods. Finally I just told him that I would be going on ahead and left him to graze on Yavanna's pastures.

 

It being high summer already, the clearings were too dry and sunburnt for strawberries, so I wandered further down the mountain side between the tall pines. There the ground was perfect, with just the right kind of underbrush, so that as soon a I gently brushed aside the green leaves, I was greeted by the first plump blood-red berries.

 

Crouching down and occasionally moving along on my knees – you have to bow low before the God of Berries, Granny Baggins used to say – I did not even notice time pass and my basket gradually start to fill up.

 

Until I climbed over a fallen tree on my quest for the next patch of strawberries and looked straight into two pairs of round, shocked eyes.

 

In a hollow on the ground, half hidden by the fallen tree trunk, crouched two Dwarflings. They stared at me wordlessly. For a moment I was taken entirely by surprise, staring back, not knowing what to say or do.

 

Finally the younger of the two opened his mouth.  “You are not Master Hornbori,” he stated cautiously.

 

“No, I am not,” I replied and finally managed to smile. “And you... you are not strawberries. Although you two are not much bigger.”

 

The younger dwarfling scowled furiously. “We are too! Are you blind?”

 

“No,” I replied calmly. “I’m Billa. And who are you?”

 

“Kili.”

 

“And Fili,” the older of the two finally opened his mouth.

 

“Why are you two youngsters alone so far from the city?”

 

“We are not alone. We are with Master Hornbori.”

 

“Only, we are hiding from him,” the younger dwarf, Kili, declared. “Because he is a bore. And he yells at us.”

 

“Horn-bore,” Fili added.

 

Kili giggled a bit but then turned serious again. “But we’ve been waiting an’ waiting here and he hasn’t found us and I’m getting hungry and boooooored!”

 

“I see.” I eyed my basket, which was only half-full, but surely a pair of children would be more important? “Did you see in which direction this Hornbori went?”

 

This question brought me several contradictory replies but in the end I managed to piece together the events: Master Hornbori, who seemed to be something like a nanny-cum-tutor for the boys, had not accompanied them here, but rather they had escaped him, but the boys expected him to know where they were. Admittedly, after my experiences with some of my more adventurous little cousins, the dwarflings’ excuse of “He always knows where we are” did not sound very convincing.

 

But then, with all the trees and wild bushes and the occasional rocks and boulders that peppered the ground, it was easy to hide, so it was entirely possible that this Master Hornbori was really around somewhere and just hadn’t found the boys yet.

 

With a sudden pang of worry and guilt I realized that I hadn’t thought of Bifur for quite a while. I had seen neither hide nor hair of him. Where could he be? For a moment I considered calling out, but I did not want to frighten the boys by starting to yell suddenly. No doubt Bifur would come back home eventually. After all it was not as if the city was too far away. And the same was true for this Master Hornbori, whoever he was.

 

“Well then,” I decided. “I think you boys have been out for far too long. We need to get back to the city.”

 

“What about Hornbore?”

 

“He’s an adult Dwarf, I assume. He can find his own way.”

 

I took the younger by the hand and we started off, the elder one skipping merrily ahead of us. He seemed to know his way from the size and shape of the rocks – to me they all looked the same – and soon we found ourselves on a barely visible footpath, one that was apparently occasionally used by the goatherders of the city. It was much steeper than the one I had taken. From Fili’s replies I understood that this path actually led to one of the back gates of the city on the west slopes of the mountain. The way would be much shorter, as the main path that I had taken (that was somewhat to the south from where we were) led all around the mountain to the main gates which were facing south-east.

 

All of a sudden Fili stopped before us, gasping.

 

Picking my way painstakingly closer, I could finally see what he was staring at.

 

There was something in the tall grass. A dwarf was lying there, his arms and legs thrown haphazardly as if he had rolled down the slope. He was dressed richly, as well as I could make out. His belt buckle was of silver and his buttons decorated with amber.

 

There was also a huge stain of blood on his chest.

 

And he was very, very dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The passages that Dwalin is reading have actually been picked from two different fanfics, but I've lost which ones they were.


	11. Chapter 11

I grabbed little Kili, turning his face into my side so that he wouldn’t have to stare at the body. With Fili, I could do little – he was still standing there, motionless as a statue, until I reached out, grabbed his tunic and pulled him away. We skittered backwards, almost losing our footing, until the ghastly sight was hidden from our eyes.

 

Fili was shaking all over his body, his eyes huge and his face pale. And a horrible suspicion began to take root in my mind.

 

“Fili,” I said. He did not react, so I shook him slightly, until he turned his eyes on me. “Fili. Was that – was that Master Hornbori?”

 

He nodded.

 

I hugged him tightly and he to pressed his nose into my clothes. I stroked his head. “Let’s go back to the city as fast as we can, boys.”

 

We walked as fast as we could back southwards, towards the main footpath up to the city, which was a longer way, but _no way_ were we going to go past that... _that!_ I held both boys’ hands tightly, neither knowing nor caring whether my berry basket had fallen. The only thought I had was to get back home as fast as I could.

 

Suddenly Fili gave a little choking sound, tore his hand out of mine, crouched down and emptied his stomach there and then. His whole body shuddered there and he brought up everything, until there was nothing left but bile. Finally he leaned a cheek against cool rock, trying to get his breath back.

 

“Fili? Fili!” Kili cried out distressed.

 

The golden-haired boy looked at his little brother. “Don’t worry, Kili,” he finally said. “I’ll be fine.” He breathed deeply through his nose, still looking greenish. I crouched down beside him, stroking his head, still keeping a firm hold on Kili. The older boy pressed his cheek briefly to my palm and then muttered miserably, “I think I need to go.”

 

“We’ll be waiting nearby,” I reassured him. “Just around that rock. Shout if you need anything. All right?”

 

He nodded and we left him alone. We found a low and relatively smooth boulder nearby, so I sat Kili there. Fishing out a handkerchief from my pocket, I wiped the tears that were running freely down his face and pushed some locks of hair out of his eyes. He continued crying and I wrapped my arms around him. “Hush, hush now,” I repeated, rocking him slightly.

 

Minutes passed, until his hiccups began to lessen, and I kept on rocking him. Poor little lamb, to see such a horrible thing! Even I was shocked, and I had not known the dead Dwarf! I could not begin to imagine what the little boy was going through. I had very little idea what to do, besides taking the boys back to the city as fast as I could and then find the city guards.

 

Just as I began to worry that Fili still hadn’t shown up, I heard footsteps approaching behind my back. They were clearly too heavy for a little boy, but then, Bifur must also have been nearby. Oh, at last! I turned to greet him, happy to see a familiar face at last.

 

“There you are, Bif—“

 

The words choked in my throat. It was not Bifur. I stared up at three strange Men, dirty and wild-looking, and holding bare swords. They were grinning nastily and one pointed his sword at me.

 

“Lookie, ‘ere the two are, the dwarflings. Ya’ve been leading us on a merry chase, ya ‘ave!”

 

“And ‘ere we thought we’d ‘ave it easy, after Old ‘airy up there snuffed it jest like that! ‘E was what, yer minder, wasn’t ‘e?”

 

For a moment I was rooted to the spot, unable to say or do anything. They were the ones who had killed the Dwarf! The Man was poking me with his sword rather insistently, until I finally tried to pull myself together as best I could and pushed Kili behind me.

 

“Who are you? What do you want?”

 

“Why, ya two of course. Why do ya think we’d bother crawling all over this ‘ere cursed mountain? There’s some folks out there as’d pay nicely for a pair of dwarflings like yerselves. Come on, up with ye.”

 

Thoughts flew through my head too fast to catch them. What was going on? What did they want with us? Could I escape them? Could Kili? What if not? Were they just trying to threaten us or were they prepared to kill us? What to do, what to do? There were three of them, three Men, both taller and stronger than me and armed besides. Not to mention that even if I had had a sword or at least a knife, I wouldn’t have had the first idea what to do with it.

 

At least they had not recognised that I wasn’t a Dwarf. Well, no wonder, we Hobbits were not very well known in the wider world, and I did not bother to correct him. I was also wearing trousers, for a skirt would more easily get snagged on all sorts of twigs and brushes, so it was possible that they had not yet realized I wasn’t a boy either. Kili was just opening his mouth and I did not want to risk him blurting out the truth, so I pressed his face to my side, hissing “Hush” into his ear.

 

Slowly I rose to my feet. I did not dare to ask them to let Kili go. And where would the little lad go, alone and frightened to death? So I lifted the boy into my arms, trying to shield him with my body as much as I could. At least Fili hadn’t appeared. I sent fervent prayers to Yavanna that hearing the strangers’ voices as he was bound to, he would remain where he was and keep himself well hidden.

 

The Men pushed us to start marching. Kili started to bawl in earnest; in truth I was not much better off.

 

As we stumbled around the huge rock where we had left Fili a few minutes ago, I tried to peer around cautiously to see what had become of him. At first I could not notice anything, but then I noticed his little face peering at me from the blackberry bushes. He was hidden well enough that the Men, from their higher viewpoint, did not see him. His tears were flowing freely as he kept staring at his little brother, and a big hand of an adult dwarf was pressed firmly to his mouth.

 

Over his shoulder I saw the familiar black-and-white braided beard of my knight. He was staring back at me, his face creased with worry, anger and despair.

 

Bifur. He was alive at least. A small mercy in this situation. And he’d keep Fili safe at least and maybe help us. But what could he do, alone against three? He wasn’t even properly armed, as far as I knew. I pressed my lips together and firmly turned away from them, pulling Kili’s face to my shoulder so that he did not see them, for fear that he would somehow give away their position.

 

***

 

We stumbled downhill and Kili kept howling at the top of his voice. The Men kept grumbling for him to “shut yer gob, ya little son of orc”, but their words only seemed to bring him to new levels of desperation, until gradually he had no more strength left. We were driven north-westwards for what seemed like hours. I was stumbling with fatigue and was finally forced to let Kili walk by himself, because for a little Hobbit like me even a baby Dwarf was quite a burden. I did not want to lose hope, for I knew Bifur knew where we were and what had happened to us, surely he would be able to do something, to help us somehow – but let me tell you, it was a struggle. I think I only managed to put on a half-brave face for the sake of Kili. I could not afford to despair openly.

 

At last we came to what looked like a campsite with a half-baked hovel-like construction huddled against a rock. There we were thrown in and the door was locked behind us. Kili started crying anew and I pulled him into my lap, sitting on the dirt floor. The walls and door of the hovel were quite poorly built, with huge gaps between the boards, which was both an advantage and a disadvantage, for we had some light and could even observe some of what was going on outside, but it was also quite cool and would get worse at night. Sadly the thing was still built sturdily enough that I did not manage to pry any of the boards loose, so that there seemed to be no way for us to get out.

 

So I sat there, running my fingers through Kili’s hair. The poor tyke had finally cried himself to sleep. The kidnappers had provided us with some water luckily, but I was very, very hungry, and worse, there were no facilities for relieving oneself – that is, if you did not want to do it in the corner. Someone had clearly already been doing that, judging by the smell. But then, maybe it was just the general stench of these Men, for it hovered around them all.

 

I may have dozed off for a little while, for suddenly I was woken by new voices. More Men had appeared, five or six of them. They were talking among themselves; I couldn't hear clearly but they said something about needing to move on, as Dwarves might be on them soon, only that some of their company were still missing. Why were they afraid of the Dwarves coming? Had they seen Fili or Bifur? Had they killed them? Or could I infer from their concern that the two had escaped? Still, Bifur hadn't made an appearance so far and worry began to gnaw more seriously in my guts.

 

More time passed.

 

Someone shouted and I straightened up, pressing an eye to a gap in the wall. I couldn't see well, but there was some commotion – one of them was found killed? There was an attacker about?

 

The sound of iron upon iron, yells and grunts and – yes! I could definitely recognize cursing in the Dwarven language. And though the voice was roaring in wrath, I would have recognised it anywhere.

 

My knight had arrived. I could kiss him.

 

Was he alone, the stupid loon? What was he thinking? I’d kill him myself if he’d get hurt!

 

There were definite sounds of fighting and every moment made me more and more anxious. What was going on? How was Bifur doing? They were still out of our line of sight. I shook Kili up and ran from gap to gap, trying to find a better view. The Men were shouting, "Get him! Get the bastard!" and then there was a scream of pain. I felt my blood run cold.

 

"Bifur!" I screamed. "Bifur!"

 

But the next moment there came an odd thudding sound, like a stampede, and the shout "Baruk Khazâd!" taken up by many voices. They came thundering down what looked like a rock wall, right on the top of our heads, the Dwarven goat-cavalry, their armour shining, their hair flowing, their axes and mattocks cutting through the Men like stalks of corn, the huge twisted horns of the animals throwing men like mere toys.

 

It was over before I could say "Thank Yavanna".

 

"Help us! We're in here!" I shouted, rattling the door, and in no time the lock was hacked down and we were free.

 

Kili flew like bird to the welcoming arms of a burly Dwarf in burnished armour and a scarred face, yelling, "Siginadad, Siginadad!” completely ignoring the blood and gore covering the adult Dwarf. They hugged each other like they'd never want to let go and the little one kept chattering a mile a minute and the older Dwarf was chuckling in a deep voice and suddenly Fili was there too and there was a familiar-looking warrior who took off his helmet, revealing tousled black hair and blue eyes and he stuck his axe to his belt, stepping closer to me and said, "Father, please allow me introduce you to Mistress—" and my knees just gave out and I decided I had had just enough for the day.

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

I was not out for too long. The Dwarves, however, were impatient to get back home, so I was not given too much time to recuperate after I’d regained consciousness. As soon as I was able to stand again and everyone’s wounds had been tended and the ghastly remnants of the Men (and one of the goats that had been unfortunately killed in the battle) had been buried under heaps of stone, I was loaded onto a goat and the procession set out towards the city.

 

Thorin was riding at the head of the line, beside the old Dwarf who had been so very happy to see Kili – wait, where had I seen that particular face before? – and talking solemnly with him. Bifur, with a leg and a shoulder bound with strips of cloth, was being carried in a nifty contraption tied to two goats. They had pumped him full of some foul beverage from a silver flask and now he was snoring away loudly in the manner of Dwarves.  One of the guardsmen had also given me a sip after I had come to; it was something strong and alcoholic that took my breath away and burned all the way down to my stomach. They called it rather appropriately if unimaginatively “burn-wine”, although the nasty stuff had nothing to do with Elvish wines and as far as I knew, Dwarves did not drink nor produce any wine. It had perked me up, though, after I had regained my breath.

 

My riding-goat was led by the hand by one of the warriors called Althjof. He was a rather chatty type and told me how Prince Fili had come tearing to the guardsmen, screaming that his little brother had been kidnapped, and how Master Bifur had followed us, cutting marks into tree trunks so that the other Dwarves knew which way to go. Master Althjof then proceeded to describe in glowing colours Bifur’s courage and battle prowess in how he had attacked alone, killing several Men and being wounded in the process.

 

I didn’t dare to tell him what I thought of the idea of attacking ten Men all by oneself. Instead I threw a glance to two heavily armoured guardsmen, each bearing a little boy in front of them in the saddle. The lads seemed to be coming out of the shock of the ordeal, chattering happily with each other.

 

“Wait,” I said. “You said _prince_ Fili?”

 

“Well, yes.”

 

“Prince? As in, the King’s own...”

 

“Grandson, yes, of course. Didn’t you know the boys were princes, Mistress? They’re the sons of Princess Dis, the King’s daughter. Why else would His Majesty himself take up arms to rescue them?”

 

His Majesty? I stared at the steel-haired Dwarf riding at the head of the line with Thorin. Of course! That’s why he seemed vaguely familiar; only, he was not wearing his golden eye patch.

 

“Prince Fili is also second in line for the throne, after the crown prince, His Royal Highness Prince Thorin.”

 

The _what?_ I choked and coughed. Had I heard him right?

 

“Are you quite all right, Mistress?”

 

“Oh, yes, yes, quite,” I waved my hand at him.

 

Althjof still looked at me with some worry. “Still, perhaps it would be better to call for a stop? I could call Herjan, he’s the field healer, he could—“

 

“Truly, Althjof, I am fine.”

 

“You have been exceedingly brave, Mistress, and I’m sure there’ll be songs about you, but sometimes the shock manifests later—“ Althjof fretted on. Honestly, what was it with the Dwarves’ inability to hear what was being said?

 

“Althjof, please! There is nothing wrong with me. We were talking about the princes.” A topic which I currently found much more interesting than boring old me.

 

“Ah yes, you are right, Mistress, prince Fili. He’s still very young but he exhibited great valour and a cool head, making his way to the city all by himself, through a territory where he knew enemies might be lurking. And then he led us all here. We’re all very excited; he has shown great promise as a war leader, quite worthy of his grandfather and his uncle. I expect he’ll get his first battle braid tonight.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“Oh yes, I expect being a Hobbit, you do not know about these things. Anyway, he’s promising to be a fine boy. A fine boy indeed. Quite worthy of his heroic uncle, the great Thorin Oakenshield.”

 

I barely heard anything he told me; there were just two words hammering in my head. Thorin the surly blacksmith – a _Prince._ Prince Thorin. Prince _Thorin_. Right.

 

And I – I had demanded that the crown prince repair my cake tin. And all the things I had said. To a prince. To _the_ crown prince of the dwarves, who on top of it all appeared to be positively hero-worshipped. Sweet Yavanna, I thought, might you permit the ground to swallow me right about now? Suddenly all the things made more sense to me, the way Dwalin had smirked when I had ordered Thorin around in the kitchen, or Bofur’s uncharacteristic anxiety when Bifur had threatened to call the Prince out for a perceived act of dishonour.

 

Then I got angry. The bastard hadn’t even told me! No doubt he had been sniggering behind my back, laughing at what a fool I had been, how I had not noticed or understood the hints. A gentlebeing would not have put me in such a position!

 

I kept throwing poisonous glares towards the head of the line. Sadly, they went unnoticed; I didn’t manage to cause even the slightest itch in him. So I could do little else but fume to myself quietly, swaying in the saddle, and brood revenge while I listened to Althjof gabble on.

 

We were no more than an hour’s ride from the city when a scratchy baritone brought me out of my musings so suddenly I almost jumped into the air.

 

“Mistress Baggins.”

 

 “Oh! Your Majesty.”

 

The King who had guided his goat next to mine nodded regally. “Dwalin son of Fundin tells me that you speak the tongue of the tree-huggers.”

 

I frowned in confusion. “Tree-huggers, Your Majesty?”

 

“Elves!” the king barked impatiently.

 

“Oh. Yes, yes I do. Speak their tongue, that is.”

 

He gave a satisfied nod. “I realize, Mistress Baggins, that you’ve been through an ordeal, but still I would ask one more favour of you today. You see, little love as I have for the flighty creatures down by the seaside (I figured he meant the Elves again), they are our neighbours. So I need to warn them that there may be child snatchers about, so that they know to keep an eye on their own brats.” He spat angrily on the ground. “To kidnap a child! May Mahal damn these wretched bastards.”

 

The Grey Havens actually consisted of several settlements on both sides of the Gulf of Lune. I knew from Bofur that the closest of them was roughly a day’s breakneck ride down the mountains; the way back up would take more time. Not to mention a day or two of rest inbetween. I wasn’t sure I would be able to ride a whole day – or even to remain in saddle for so long. Still, how could I say no to a king? That would be extremely rude. “Of course, I will go to warn them, Your Majesty.”

 

That made him laugh. “Oh no, I am not so cruel as that! No, no, a letter will do, I daresay, and ravens can carry it. I would just ask you to go with my son Thorin up to the Raven Halls and write a message in their manner of scribbling.”

 

“Yes, yes of course I will.” I breathed a sigh of relief and I’m afraid the king noticed that, for he laughed again.

 

“Thorin, my boy, take good care of her!” he boomed and spurred on his goat. The rest of his warriors followed him, the two Dwarflings giving me merry waves.

 

Thorin, the traitorous prince, gave me his best cocky white-teeth-in-black-beard flash of a smile. “Your servant, Madam!”

 

I didn’t smile back. Instead I tried to look down my nose upon him, which was no small feat, considering he was taller than me and oh so dashing.

 

“Your royal highness,” I said.

 

His smile died. After a brief moment he nodded and just lifted me to the saddle before him like a piece of baggage. “The mountain paths are treacherous, Mistress Baggins, you are not accustomed to them.”

 

 

***

 

Goats were the best possible mounts for Dwarves in the sharp and jagged mountains, as they appeared to be uncommonly sure-footed and could move up and down any rock. I had glimpsed some of the Dwarves’ attack against our kidnappers: the mountain slope they had come down from, I could only climb slowly and carefully, sideways, and never, ever with my loyal little pony Daisy. The Dwarven cavalry, however, had arrived at full tilt, their swords and axes raised, so fast that the villains had never even known what hit them.

 

The rock walls we were climbing up now, however, were in my eyes practically vertical. I dug my fingers desperately into the poor animal’s neck wool, alternately holding my breath and squealing in fright. Just one look down to the ground under us, which seemed so impossibly far away, made me press my eyes shut and pray that I would never ever have to look that way again.

 

A strong arm wrapped securely around me.

 

“Do not fear, Mistress Baggins,” Thorin said, pressing me firmly to him. “Nungel is well trained, he will not let us fall.”

 

“Thank you,” I squeaked through my shattering teeth, then added as an afterthought, “your royal highness.”

 

He growled something unintelligible but offered no further comment.

 

The feel of his firm, steady body behind me grounded me somewhat, but still I refused to open my eyes until the movement under me stopped. In the end Thorin had to bodily lift me down once again, because my body just refused to cooperate. No, Hobbits were not made to climb high mountains!

 

Raven Halls was a grand name for a collection of funny little structures on the top of a ledge that stretched out from the mountain under which the Dwarven city was situated. Their purpose was not difficult to judge: coal-black birds flitted in and out of the apertures or crouched there, gawking at us with their bead-like eyes. The whole area was covered in bird poo and discarded feathers and I had to watch out where I put my foot.

 

From the look of it, these little houses had been standing here for hundreds of years, long before the exile from the Lonely Mountain that I had heard Dwarves mention. I had heard about the special relationship many Dwarven clans had with Ravens. I had even heard from a Ranger that some of the Dwarves could supposedly talk with these birds.

 

Thorin took out a small piece of paper and a pencil and told me what to write. I took a moment to study the pencil, a thin stick of coal that was wrapped into a delicate metal cover. I had seen some Elves use something like that: a fine piece of coal wrapped in wooden casing that was then in the course of use gradually pared away with a sharp knife. However, these things were mostly used by artists, not by scribes, as they tended to be somewhat capricious; and never had I seen one as thin and fine as this one. Also, it ran over the paper smoothly, leaving an even and perfectly legible trace.

 

“It is not just any coal,” Thorin said by way of explanation when I asked. “It is a special kind of coal, found in the mountains in the North. We call it Crystal Coal*. When the tip is used up, just twist the top carefully.” He showed me and indeed, as I twisted it, the coal tip lengthened slightly. I made the appropriate admiring noises.

 

While I was writing, Thorin made an odd sound in his throat, something that sounded like a sort of croak. After a moment a raven descended upon his arm. It climbed up to the Dwarf Prince’s shoulder and perched there, grooming his flyaway hair. Thorin caressed the black feathers with his finger, crooning at it, while I finished my writing.

 

When I gave him the letter, he tied it deftly to the bird and for several moments we both followed its fluttering flight in silence, until it was reduced to a tiny speck and finally disappeared.

 

It had been a very long day for me, and I realized it only when I noticed that the sun was approaching the horizon. The Western sky was a riot of pink and orange hues, interspersed with golden-edged violet stripes of cloud. I wrapped my arms around me to ward off the cold.

 

In the next moment a warm coat was put on my shoulders – and held there by two arms wrapped around me.

 

“You are cold,” he said.

 

I craned my head back to look at him. There was a wistful little smile in the corner of his mouth and he was staring at me with a sort of far-away, soft expression.

 

“Your royal highness?” I murmured.

 

His face fell and he growled again. “Bilberry, I wish you’d...” he started, but then fell silent.

 

Finally he sighed and started again. “Mistress Baggins... Billa. Please, I’d like to know before we get back to the city. If I have offended you somehow, please tell me how, so that I can make amends.”

 

My jaw dropped. “Offended me? No!”

 

“Then why all this Royal Highness nonsense? You used to be much freer around me. You used to call me Thorin.”

 

“Well...” I said. “I called you Thorin because I had no idea I ought not. And I’m very sorry about that.”

 

“I’m not,” he put in. “I liked it. I wish you would again.”

 

“How can I, now that I know who you are?”

 

“I could be just Thorin, for you. Or... Or blacksmith, or whatever you used to call me? Or even rude? I just ... You’ll probably laugh at me, but I loved it when you called me rude. Yes,” he said when I looked up at him, rising my eyebrow, “yes, at first I was angry, but then... you just made me laugh. I loved it.”

 

“ _You_ may have loved it, but to be fair, you did come to me with false pretenses.”

 

 “If memory serves, it was _you_ who came to _me_ , not the other way round. And with such demands!”

 

I felt a blush creep up my cheeks, thinking back on our first meeting. And second. _And_ third. And... “Oh dear, oh dear. Pray, don’t remind me! I do wish you had told me you were royalty. Should I expect being arrested and tried for _l_ _èse-majesté_?”

 

He just laughed. “Did you really not know? About me? Surely someone would have told you? Your hosts? Your, er, students?”

 

I shook my head.

 

“I can’t believe it. Dwalin, well, he’s an old friend and might try to pull a prank, but I’d never believe Bifur wouldn’t—“

 

“I don’t really understand what Bifur is saying most of the time,” I admitted.

 

“Oh yes, I forgot. But I even left my own sigil so that you’d know.“

 

I put my hands on my hips. “And surely you are such an important character in the whole Arda that even Hobbits would know your sigil? Really, your sense of self-importance knows no bounds.”

 

Thorin chuckled at that. “Ah, there’s my Bilberry, all sass and fire.” He wrapped his arms tighter around me and I felt a soft whiskery touch on my cheek.

 

Wait – had he just kissed me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * graphite, of course. Only, the name graphite comes from the Greek word that means "to write", and I don't think Dwarves would base their names for minerals on anything Greek or even be aware of the language.


	13. Chapter 13

“Thorin – what was that? Did you just kiss me?”

 

His hands suddenly fell away from me and when I turned to look at him, he seemed somewhat... taken aback. Apprehensive. But only for a moment – then his features froze into the familiar Master Blacksmith scowl.

 

“Forgive me,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes. “I shouldn’t have presumed—“

 

“Because if it was,” I sailed on, ignoring him, “if it was, Thorin, you’re going about it the wrong way. Kissing is meant to be a reciprocal thing, you don’t just go about it _burgling_ like that.”

 

“Um,” he said eloquently, looking chastised. “Sorry.”

 

I huffed impatiently. The poor sod had no idea what I was saying, had he? I stood up on tiptoes, stretching my arms up around his neck, and when he still did not take the hint, I grabbed one of his braids and yanked. “Down here, you ridiculous creature. How do you suppose I can kiss you back when you are so looming over me?”

 

He made an odd choking sound – apparently my response had not been what he had expected, but he came readily enough.

 

I moved in, but stopped just close enough that I could feel the tickle of his moustache. It was soft and enticing, something that I hadn’t quite expected. For a moment, I just moved my head to and fro, to feel this odd, whiskery caress on my lips. Thorin’s eyes fell shut. He tilted his head slightly, as if wanting to give me better access, and a sigh escaped him.

 

I put my mouth over his. His lips were warm and dry and very, very gentle. I couldn’t resist and gave his lower lip a brief nibble before pulling away again.

 

He growled a protest and chased after me as I lowered myself to stand properly on the ground as a Hobbit was supposed to. His arms tightened around me, pulling me firmly against his body. But where I had expected his mouth to descend on mine hungrily, instead, very slowly and carefully, as if expecting me to flee any moment, he touched his forehead to mine.

 

We stood there, nose to nose, staring wordlessly into each other’s eyes. His were suddenly very dark blue, and his breath wafted across my lips and cheeks gently, carrying my name as he whispered, “Billa. Billa, Billa.”

 

Our breath mingled between us and it carried his scent and his hair danced with mine in the gusts of wind. I was breathing in him, Thorin, the blacksmith prince, and he was breathing in me. His every exhalation flowed to me and over me, encompassing and surrounding me and making me very much aware of his presence. It was weird, it was unfamiliar, it was... surprisingly, breathtakingly, exhilaratingly intimate. It was quite impossible to hold back a moan. “Thorin...”

 

***

 

The Dwarf jumped slightly, as if startled awake from a dream, and suddenly the moment was over. We separated, feeling flushed and (at least me) flustered. I had to take a moment to calm down my heartbeat and restore my usual composure.

 

Thorin cleared his throat.

 

Then I cleared my throat.

 

It was awkward.

 

I looked at the last sliver of the sundisk that was still barely visible over the horizon. The cold mountain wind made itself known again; it had been kept away so well by Thorin’s warm coat and warmer arms that I had quite forgotten how unfriendly the weather could be so high up. I shivered and wrapped my arms around me. It took quite an effort to hold back the tremble in my voice.

 

“Well then, my prince charming, bring on your white horse. Or goat, as the case may be.”

 

That brought a huff out of him. “You do love to order me about. So bossy.”

 

I was somewhat taken aback by his assessment. “Nothing wrong with a girl knowing what she wants,” I muttered defensively.

 

“Absolutely nothing,” he agreed, and a corner of his mouth curled upwards.

 

“Every girl wants to be held and kissed.”

 

“So you tell me.”

 

“Especially by handsome boys. Even if they are princes.”

 

His face fell. “Now I know that you are mocking me.”

 

And suddenly I put the pieces together. Uryad, the axe-faced prince whom we had toasted in Mistress Hlothyn’s pub, was in fact none other than Thorin himself, whereas I had thought there was another prince called Uryad. A prince whose poor looks were the talk of the whole city.

 

Cruel, cruel Dwarves.

 

And, Thorin, plain-looking? He had the clearest blue eyes I had ever seen, and his smile looked good, if a bit startlingly bright in the midst of all that beard. It made me want to see it time and again; if I were forced to confess, it had even haunted my dreams once. Or, well, more than once.

 

True, he lacked the pleasant and comfortable roundness that Hobbits preferred. A less benevolent critic could also say that his nose was too long and sharp (right, I could agree with the Dwarves there), his eyebrows too frowny, his lips too thin and the scarcity of laugh lines in the corners of his face and mouth utterly lamentable. That did not mean that I thought Thorin unlovely.

 

I wrapped my arms around the Dwarven prince (his metal-studded leather brigandine must have left imprints in my forearms by now) and leaned my head on his chest. “I am not mocking you, Thorin Blacksmith.”

 

His answer was a noncommittal hmm.

 

“I’m not, I promise you. Maybe it is a Hobbit versus Dwarf thing, or maybe it is just me, but I do think you are handsome. More so than many other Dwarves I’ve met. Well, definitely more handsome than, say, Bifur or Bofur. Your hair is more contained, for one.”

 

That startled him. “Are you saying I lack hair? Oh, Mahal, Bilberry, you have no idea what you’re saying. Hair is generally considered a thing of pride and beauty among Dwarves, and the more you have it, the better. Although I cannot claim to have mithril or golden-coloured hair, or copper, or bronze or even shining steel, I assure you, mine is healthy and plentiful.”

 

I shook my head. Well of course Dwarves would compare hair colours to metals. “What would you say is your hair colour, according to Dwarven style?” I asked just for the sake of curiosity.

 

“Coal, maybe,” he shrugged. “Perhaps I can achieve black marble when I get older.”

 

“Dwalin’s?”

 

“Sphalerite,” he said without hesitation.

 

“Spale—what? Oh, never mind. I suppose it’s some kind of rock down under.”

 

He burst out laughing. “By Mahal, Bilberry, you _are_ rude. You open your mouth and insult the Dwarves just so,” he snapped his fingers. “Some kind of rock down under indeed. And you know what I like best? That you do it so, so... casually, unawares, and yet never meaning any of it. And then you put your hands on your hips, just so, and order me about. I know Dwalin finds it hilarious. He’s quite fond of you, you know.”

 

“Mhm,” I said into his brigandine, “I’m also quite fond of Dwalin. He’s very brave.”

 

“And Bifur. He went to battle for you. He thinks the world of you.”

 

“I know. I call him my knight. He’s always looking out for me.”

 

“And they’re both handsome,” Thorin added.

 

I slapped his chest slightly. “What is it with you Dwarves and handsomeness? Bifur and Dwalin are dear fellows, but no, I’ve never thought of either of them as truly handsome. In fact, they remind me of my great aunt Pansy’s old oakwood cupboard. Wide and square and all that.”

 

He gave a somewhat surprised laugh. “Heh... Cupboard.” He mulled it over for a bit. “We’d call it strong and steady, firmly planted on the rocky ground from which Mahal has carved us. Reliable. A Dwarf with a thin and willowy figure is generally said to lack Mahal’s strength. And our Dwarrowdams, few as they are, can have a pick of the best that our race has to offer, so why should they accept anyone who is less than perfect?”

 

Ah, there it was, the crux of the matter. I looked at him. True, he was perhaps narrower in shape than many other Dwarves, but I would never say he lacked strength.

 

“But,” he continued with a definite smirk in his voice now, “I’ll be happy to inform Dwalin that you compared him to your great aunt’s cupboard.”

 

I gasped. “Ohh, you... you rascal! You wouldn’t!”

 

“And that he has the hair colour of some rock down under.”

 

“You are never going to let me live that down, are you?”

 

“Never,” he said, whistling for his goat. “But now, I think we should really get going. Or else they might be coming to look for us.”

 

***

 

The lights were on in my house when we arrived, and an alarming number of city guardsmen were bustling in and out. Bombur was in the kitchen, talking in rapid-fire Khuzdul with one of the warriors.

 

The door to Bifur and Bofur’s room stood wide open. A sharp tang of medicinal herbs and alcohol hung in the air. Bifur lay on the oven-bed, still out; he was freshly bandaged. Two Dwarves bearing the sigil of the Healers’ Guild were busy over him, while an elderly Dwarf with some quirkily twisted braids was working with a heavy golden mortar and pestle. Bofur stood in the corner, out of the way of all those bustling healers, twisting his arms.

 

Thorin strode into the room.

 

“Cousin Oin! How is he?”

 

“Ah, Uryad.” The grey-haired Dwarf spoke in an unnaturally loud voice. I realized why, when set aside his mortar and picked up an ear trumpet. “The patient is resting. He’ll live, and even regain the full use of his limbs – provided we can avoid the wound-fever. I’ll leave something here, to dress his wounds – an ointment of my own making. That should do it.”

 

The last was addressed to Bofur, who bowed and muttered his thanks, looking worried.

 

“Oh, there, there, lad, no fears!” the healer, Oin, said (yelled). “I’ll send an apprentice to check upon him every day, and if need be, you send me word and I’ll come, you hear me?”

 

“Yes, Lord Oin. Thank you, Lord Oin. Thank you,” Bofur’s body seesawed up and down in many deep bows.

 

Oin slapped Bofur jovially, so hard that the poor miner almost fell over, and then with a brief nod and a “Highness; Madam, your servant,” sailed out of the room. The other healers quickly packed their things and followed him, as did all those guardsmen, judging by the sudden lack of heavy footfalls in the house.

 

Thorin patted Bofur on the shoulder and said something in quiet Khuzdul, which made Bofur nod and sit down by Bifur. Then the prince took my arm and walked me back to the kitchen where he seated me at the table. He lifted my hand and pressed a brief kiss to the backs of my fingers, and then he too left.

 

Bombur was sitting in front of the oven listlessly, a ladle in his hand, staring into the fire unseeingly. He sighed.

 

I sighed.

 

What a day.

 

Then I got up, put the kettle on and set out three cups. What an utterly unbelievable day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darth Daughter pulled a Billa and baked bilberry muffins. See here: http://odekiisu.tumblr.com/post/123473911356/billas-bilberry-muffins-from-darth-mums-fic


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that the updates are now longer in coming. They'll probably get even longer in the future. I'm generally a very VERY slow writer, so it is a miracle in itself that I've come so far.

Lord Oin had prescribed Bifur several weeks of bed rest. As promised, his apprentices came every day to wash Bifur’s wounds with tinctures and “ointments” to keep fever away, before putting on fresh bandages. For a few days they also dosed him with some kind of Dwarvish resin that seemed to keep him asleep; but after that, they said they could not risk to give him any more, as he might become dependent on the substance. Thereafter it was up to Bifur’s own resilience and the herbal concoctions Bofur and I kept cooking in the kitchen.

 

It was difficult for me to see Bofur’s pinched face and permanent scowl. The Dwarf’s normally merry eyes were shadowed and his moustache, usually curling jauntily, drooped dejectedly into his teacup. His normal lively banter and gossiping was also missing, so it was almost as if there was a ghost puttering about in the house. Because of course he stayed home to take care of his cousin: it was not the Dwarven way to leave these things to females.

 

“It’s hard to see him in pain,” Bofur confessed to me one day while we were waiting for the kettle to boil. “But you know, in some ways it is better. At least he’s at home where I can keep an eye on him, not out there, doing Mahal knows what. Oh – dear me, whatever am I saying! Mistress Billa, I didn’t mean that you... I never meant that you should have been left... I... Oh, my cursed tongue running away with me again.”

 

I patted his arm and assured him that it was completely all right and all that.

 

“But you see,” he explained. “Bifur is a... I don’t exactly know the word in the Common Tongue. A special kind of warrior. A bear-shirt-man(*)? Does that make sense? No? All right, then I don’t really know how to say it. Umm. Don’t speak of it to others, Mistress, all right? Right. Well, they’re the kind of warriors who go to battle in a trance, seeking death, death of the enemy, with no other goal in mind. No care of their own life or their comrades. They sometimes take the point in Dwarven battle formations but usually they’re on their own. They’re practically unstoppable, an one-man army. They don’t even wear any mail to slow them down, it used to be just a bear pelt over their backs if anything at all – hence the name.”

 

“And – and Bifur is one of those?”

 

“Yes. Taken the vows and all. Ever since his injury. And he’s...” Bofur sighed. “Apparently he’s now famous for having survived two battles.” He twiddled his thumbs and confessed in a quieter voice, “I had thought it was safe here. Quiet. No battles. A king and all. Order and safety. So we settled down here, didn’t move to the Iron Hills where some folks went, because that’s near the wild lands and too close to Erebor and its accursed worm.  And Bifur had been coming on so nicely, with you and his letters and all...”

 

Oh. Oh! If that was the case, of course Bofur was worried. I had no idea how to console him though. So I resorted to the ubiquitous cup of tea, some pancakes with honey drizzled on them, and a cup of honeyed herbal tea to take with him when he once again disappeared to their room to see to his cousin.

 

***

 

Sviur passed the guild exam. In the past couple of weeks he had asked me to set him homework for practise and I had written him a recipe to read – a complicated Elvish one, to make sure that it would not be familiar – and asked him to write a good-bye letter to his classmates. The letter was then read in our last class and everybody had great fun trying to spot any mistakes. Poor Sviur was a bundle of nerves as he painstakingly corrected each and every one pointed out to him, the tip of his tongue sticking out. But in the end, his diligence and hard work paid off: he did pass the exam and was accepted as an apprentice by Dori.

 

A couple of days after my and Bifur’s horrible adventure Sviur, now sporting a proud new braid behind his ear, came to our house with his parents and siblings. They all kept bowing so low that their beards practically swept over the floor, thanking us until I was quite flushed with embarrassment. They brought us a whole smoked ham, a keg of finely shredded pickled cabbages and a loaf of fresh bread, swept the floor again with their beards and finally left.

 

I was very happy for Sviur, but to be quite honest, at the moment I was happier for all the food they had brought. As Bifur was unable to work and Bofur stayed at home to take care of him, I remained the only breadwinner in our small household and thus it was really not the best time for me to lose any income. Dwalin also hadn’t appeared for his weekly reading practise and I had no idea whether he would be back at all. Bombur kept sending us a bit of food, but it would not be fair to rely on him – he had a relatively large family to feed and he also could not risk stealing too much from his employer.

 

So I decided to take steps to find a new pupil or two. Austri suggested that I might put up a notice in the bookshop of the Scribes’ Guild. He said there was a sort of notice board where such services were usually advertised, and that nobody would care that I was not a member of the Guild or even a certified tutor here in the Dwarven kingdom. So before the next market day I made my way under the mountain once again, a prepared note neatly folded in my pocket.

 

I must have heard the racket halfway down the market hall, although I didn’t realize at first where it came from. However, as I came nearer, I discerned that the shouts and noise originated from the very shop I was headed to. Alarmed, I came to a halt on a walkway in front of the building, together with a number of Dwarves who were beginning to gather to see the drama play out.

 

“Shame! Shame on you!” a voice screeched inside the bookshop, interspersed with slapping sounds and pitiful whimpers. “I took you in out of the kindness of my heart, and this is how you repay me? I taught you, nurtured your talent, and you dare to squander it on such rubbish? Where is your pride in your craft? Where is your sense of honour? Where is your loyalty to your master and your Guild? You miserable twig-nibbling chipmunk, I’ll see you thrown out, if that is the last thing I do. Your brother is a fine craftsman and an upstanding Dwarf, be sure he’ll hear all about it from me! Did you stop to think how he feels about it? No, you didn’t! How could you do this to him? You Elven kitchen-waste, you do not deserve your apprentice’s braid. And if my word still carries any weight, you’ll never have a place among this Guild ever again!”

 

A wail followed these words. The shop’s door flew open with a bang and an object flew out, plopping down a few yards from me. At first I thought it was a russet-coloured dead mouse, but on closer inspection it appeared to be a braided tuft of hair.

 

Another object clattered down much closer and I (together with some of the Dwarves) scuttled backwards to avoid being hit. It was a round box made of thin sheet of metal, the likes of which were used by scribes to carry their pens, quills and other implements. Hitting the flagstones with clang and rattle, it broke open, spilling its contents all around. Next followed a well-worn bag, a boot, and finally, a young Dwarf in torn clothing, his hair standing out in odd tufts where his braid had been. The Dwarves around me hooted and laughed.

 

“Now get out and stay out! I don’t want to see you in here ever again!” screeched the voice inside.

 

As the young Dwarf got up from the pavement, groaning, he suddenly realized he was surrounded by curious onlookers. Some of the Dwarves shouted something at him in their language and the youngster ducked his head miserably, blushing beet-red to the very tips of his ears. As quickly as he could, he gathered his belongings, pulled his hood deeply over his tear-stained facer and scurried away to the jeers and whistles of the public.

 

For several minutes I stood on the street, hesitant to enter the war-zone so to speak. However, after the young Dwarf had disappeared, everything seemed to be quiet in there. Still, I did not dare to move until I saw two Dwarf matrons head to the bookshop and sail in through the door, and as no alarming noise followed, I finally tiptoed my way in.

 

The shop was cool and cosy; one side was devoted to books, the other to paper, parchment and vellum, quills, bookbinding instruments, parchment scrubbing tools and other paraphernalia of the craft. And there, by the door, hung the promised notice board with a handful of advertisements. The shopkeeper (apparently the same screechy-voiced one) was busy with the two Dwarrowdams, so I put up my note quickly, but then lingered to take a better look at the books, hoping to find something that I could use in my classes.

 

Perhaps half of them were written in the language of the Dwarves; the rest were in the Common Tongue. No Tengwar or Elven cirth was anywhere in sight – not that I had expected any. Of the common-tongue books, there were treatises about various crafts, history of the First Age, history of Nogrod, history of Khazad-Dum, history of the Lost Tribes, the art of pickling, the names of the royal lineage back to someone called Durin, and so on, and so forth. I ran my eyes over the titles, hoping to find keywords such as “adventures”, “heroes”, “stories”, but could not spot any. In fact, the whole selection was not big by any means, perhaps at par with what my Grandfather, the Old Took, had had in his smial (after his death his books had been distributed among his numerous offspring). And in terms of variety and linguistic diversity, it could not compare even with my own Papa’s excellent library back in Bag End. Having visited the glorious library of Rivendell earlier in my life, I was not much impressed by what I saw here, to say the least.

 

I browsed some of the history books to see whether they would be suitable for my students. The history of the Lost Tribes of Dwarf-folk had been written in such a dry and pompous style that after only a couple of pages I was ready to succumb to tears of boredom. The book about the First Age seemed to contain mainly prejudices and imprecations against Elves, their bad manners and treachery, whereas the history of Nogrod turned out to be basically a list of kings who had ruled there during the First Age. I put them away quickly and hesitantly picked up the Lost Tribes book again, when I stepped on something.

 

Looking down, I saw a couple of books – two copies of the same book – that had been thrown on the floor and slid halfway under the exposition desk. The books were thin, barely a dozen or so pages. As I picked them up, one of them fell open in my hand and... oh.

 

 _Oh_.

 

There was an illustration, of a Dwarf and a Dwarrowdam, and – well, it left very little to the imagination. The Dwarf’s hand was cupped around the Dwarrowdam’s ample breast and he was very well endowed and apparently well versed in the use of his – er, _endowment_ , judging by the Dwarrowdam’s face. A very well drawn face, conveying the emotions very clearly. Whoever the artist was, he clearly had talent.

 

My eyes fell on the text next to the picture and I felt an odd sense of familiarity stir deep in my gut. “...He’d neglected to tell her how good she felt in his arms. Lush and curvy under his hands, and her mouth so sweet and warm, tasting faintly of...”

 

I clapped the thing shut and nearly threw the books down again, blushing to the roots of my hair. But the next moment I picked them up again. I knew this story. I knew only very well how it would go on. I knew it forwards and backwards, because I had written it.

 

It was the thing I had written for Dwalin, the traitorous guardsman, to induce him to read. How dare he? How in the name of all that was green _dare_ he? I had written a story specifically for him, as a present and an aid – a story the likes of which decent folk would normally pretend didn’t exist – and he had decided to make it public? I had written a story for him to read and he had had it copied, illustrated and sold in the bookshop, whereas I was counting pennies?

 

With shaking fingers I put down the books and then picked them up again. My gasp must have alerted the shopkeeper and his two customers: afterwards I could vaguely remember them coming over to me, tittering and snickering over the books and then leaving with a copy, while the old shopkeeper kept seesawing up and down in deep bows like a roly-poly toy. All the time, though, I stood there as if petrified, deep embarrassment and anger seething within me.

 

To add insult to injury, I finally bought the remaining copy. I had to _pay_ a precious coin for it (luckily it was not expensive) to be able to take it home with me, but I did.

 

Thus armed, I marched back home, full of righteous anger peppered with disappointment, shame and indignation, all the while trying to decide what I should say to Dwalin next time I’d see him.

 

And lo and behold, who should I see but the culprit himself. For indeed there he was, sitting on the edge of a fountain, talking quietly with another Dwarf, one much smaller than him. They were turned to each other, Dwalin’s arm thrown over the other one’s shoulders, while his other hand (a paw, really) was holding the other Dwarf’s both hands.

 

As I went closer, I recognised that his companion was none other than the youngster whom I had seen ingloriously thrown out of the bookshop. Not that I cared, though. I stepped to them and stood there, arms crossed over my chest and tapping my foot, until finally they both noticed my presence.

 

“Mistress Billa,” Dwalin said by way of greeting.

 

“Don’t you “Mistress Billa” me, you scoundrel.”

 

His eyebrows crept up in surprise, but I would have none of it. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare to pretend you don’t know what this is about,” I growled at him, pulling out the book and sticking it under his nose. “Explain.”

 

The young Dwarf, still tear-streaked and snotty, gasped and threw the guardsman a panicked gaze. It seemed to me that he tried to hide himself behind Dwalin’s bulky figure; but Dwalin just patted him on the head, stood and pulled him forward. “Ah, Mistress Billa. This ‘ere lad is young Ori. I was hoping to talk to ye about ye mayhap giving him some tutoring.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*) The word "berserk" in Old Norse meant "bear-shirt". I played around with the idea a bit. See wikipedia for more.


	15. Chapter 15

As there was currently no privacy to be had at my place, Dwalin took us to his home – or rather, I marched him at my fingerpoint while young Ori trotted after us, looking flummoxed.

 

As he opened his door, the house was not empty: we were greeted by the sight of a very familiar shaggy black mane peering out from a cupboard.

 

“Dwalin, there you are,” Thorin shouted over his shoulder from where he was rummaging through his guardsman’s things (good grief, I would not be able to understand the ways of the Dwarves even if I spent a lifetime among them). “Look, where did you put that pair of knives Uncle Gróin made, I’d like to have them for reference...” He stops mid-sentence. “What are you doing here, Bilberry? What is the meaning of this, Dwalin?”

 

“None o’yer business,” the guardsman growled. “Third drawer on yer right, and then see yerself out.”

 

But one look at me, as I stood there, my arms crossed and glaring at them all, and the prince’s mouth stretched into a grin.

 

“Uh-oh, Dwalin! Something tells me you have angered our good Mistress Baggins and are about to be reprimanded. Come on, I wouldn’t want to miss the show, not even for your best battle axes!” He rubbed his hands in anticipation and planted himself at the head of the table, looking for like a tween waiting for the Yulenight spectacle to begin.

 

“Ye must be joking,” Dwalin grumbled. “Ye realize yer in _my_ kitchen giving orders?”

 

Thorin just waved a hand dismissively. “Never bothered you before.”

 

“And I’m not about to be reprimanded! I was goin’ to fix it!”

 

“Yes, yes, keep telling yourself that. It’s not like I don’t recognise her foot-tapping.”

 

They both stared at me and I stopped my foot. My arms, however, stayed belligerently crossed.

 

“Hah!” Dwalin spat out. “Like to see me shamed, do ye, Thorin. Fair warning: mind yer backside when next we train.”

 

“It’s your own backside that’ll end up on the sand,” Thorin crowed. “And I’ll invite Bilberry to see it all!” Suddenly his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. “Anyway, what is she doing in your house? Dwalin, do I have to ask what are your intentions towards Mistress Baggins?”

 

Dwalin snarled something in the Dwarven tongue (which I knew now was called something unpronounceable) and marched up to Thorin, his hands pressed into fists. The prince retorted with the same, so I lost their yarn of conversation, if you could call it that.

 

While the two were busy with mutual growling and posturing like Griselda Goodbody’s best fighting cockerels, I looked sideways at our other companion. The young Dwarf was shivering like a leaf, staring at the two and at the same time trying to melt into the doorpost.

 

“Come on,” I pulled his sleeve, “let’s sit down until the boys fight it out.”

 

We found a place to sit down side by side on a low bench by the fireplace.

 

“Th-the boys?” The young Dwarf squeaked. “But he’s...”

 

“Mhm.”

 

“He’s – the, the _Uryad,_ he’s the...”

 

“If that means that he’s the prince, then yes. Yes, I’ve been told he is.”

 

“But – but. The _Uryad_! And he’s...”

 

“Yes,” I sighed. “They don’t necessarily come with manners, apparently.”

 

“M-manners, Mistress?”

 

“Uh, never mind. Look,” I dug in my memory for a moment, “Ari, was it?”

 

“Ori,” he corrected me. “Ori, son of Jari, of the Scribes’... Er, that is ... Ori, at your service. Mistress.”

 

“Just call me Billa, everyone does.”

 

I looked towards where the two warriors who were still gabbling on. As I saw it, they could go on until the cows came home. I had no wish to keep sitting here forever. Mama had always said that if you wanted something done, you had to do it yourself; so that’s what I decided to do. “Look, Ori,”I  started, “you probably know that Dwalin here is not so good with all the explanations, so – can you explain to me how you are involved in this? You were thrown out of the guild, were you not?”

 

His shoulders slumped. “Yes, Mistress.”

 

“Why?”

 

“My master, er. He saw my work and he... did not approve.”

 

A suspicion niggled in my mind. I fished out the book that had caused the whole debacle. “Dwalin ordered those from you, didn’t he?” I didn’t even have to wait for his unhappy nod to know the truth. “Did he even pay you for your work?”

 

His eyes went huge. “Of course he did! Master Dwalin is an honest Dwarf. He is a great Dwarf! He gave me a standard sharing contract to make illustrated copies. I made three.” His voice petered out.

 

I had no idea what a “sharing contract” was, so I asked. According to his explanation, it was a contract to create a work of any art or craft, where the proceeds were shared between all craftsmen who participated in the work, usually with fixed percentages foreseen for every stage of the work. For example, in the case of a book, the participants might be the author, the illustrator, the binder and perhaps some others. Apparently the Dwarves were big on contracts and many things were created in this way.

 

“Only,” he sniffled, “Master Fjorgynn threw me out and if I don’t find another master in the Scribes’ Guild to take me in, my Guild fee will be lost, but Master Fjorgynn will make sure that nobody wants to take me and I’ll never be able to afford another guild fee and what I got from that book was not nearly enough and Dori will kill me!” He sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

 

I took a moment to unravel this garbled explanation. The system of Guilds was sometimes also used among Men, and they, too, paid their guild fees to the guild rather than to an individual master. So if for whatever reason an apprentice had to change masters – for example when his master died or when the apprentice needed to learn additional skills – he did not have to pay the fee all over again, as long as the new master belonged to the same guild. Of course, when someone was discharged dishonourably, there was little chance of that; so I could understand Ori’s worry. I patted his back slightly.

 

“I’m sure no one will kill you. Besides, Master Dwalin said he had some sort of plan, didn’t he? The man with a plan that he is?”

 

He sniffled some more. “Master Dwalin says he will ask his brother to take me in, only, his brother is currently away.”

 

“Is his brother a scribe too?”

 

“No, he is... Oh. Lord Balin is a royal counselor. But the ... _oglib_ , the, what Men call the art of statesmen? That also is part of the Scribes’ Guild. As is the art of teaching and the art of illumination of manuscripts. It is a very important guild and I am... was... proud to be an apprentice there.” he sniffled a bit more. “I studied to be an illuminator.”

 

“You were good at it,” I said honestly, even though Dwalin’s actions still rankled. “Besides, I know it for a fact that your Master Fjorgynn was very happy to sell all of the copies of that book. You created something that sells; don’t forget that.”

 

He shrugged. “Lord Balin won’t be interested in selling. He is a very important lord, and very wise.” His voice was somewhat shaky as he continued, “I can’t see what he would want with one like me, of what use would I be as his apprentice. I have little knowledge of history or customs or languages, I am not rich nor a lord and have not been trained like their sons are. I do not know. Maybe I could be an archivist for him. But Master Dwalin was very sure, so I try to be too.”

 

Suddenly  I knew what Dwalin wanted of me. I closed my eyes and sighed in exasperation. “There are not many Dwarves who speak Sindarin, right? I bet even this Lord Balin doesn’t – does he?”

 

***

 

Ori left with the knowledge that, Dwalin or no Dwalin, he had permission to seek me out in the coming days and we would talk. Meanwhile the two cockerels had apparently come to some sort of understanding. Thorin spent some time wheedling a promise of cinnamon rolls out of me and generally making a nuisance of himself; finally he took my hand and kissed my fingertips before taking his leave.

 

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dwalin freeze for a moment. Why, was this sort of intimacy between Dwarrows some kind of taboo? I had received lots of hand-kisses from several handsome Hobbit lads. But when I turned to him to ask what was the matter, he was once again composed and friendly and never mentioned anything about it.

 

As we sat at his table, he put a scroll of paper before me, along with a pouch of coins. The title of the scroll read in a flowing script, This Contract to Share the Work and Profit to Produce a Book.

 

“I should’ve done this before,” he said somewhat apologetically, “but trust me, Mistress Billa, I made sure meself that all is in order and ye haven’t been cheated in any way.”

 

“ _Told_ me before? The way I see it, Dwalin, you should have _asked_ me before! I gave you a book – and you abuse my trust like this? It is not done, Dwalin. It is not done.”

 

He frowned slightly. “I don’t understand. Have I disrespected ye? I thought a story writer would want to be published. In this way, ye wouldna have to bow and scrape to all those stuffy thinbeards in the Scribbling Guild. Trust me, I know their ilk, had to suffer one tutor after another.”

 

“So you thought you would be doing me a favour... Wait a minute. What makes you think I am the author?”

 

He smirked slightly. “I know yer handwriting, Billa. Ye wrote this note about Nori and Tveggi.”

 

I felt my face heat up. For a moment I didn’t know what to say. “Oh. Oh dear. I’m so sorry, Dwalin. I’m so, so sorry. I do hope you were not...”

 

“No worries. Yer secret is safe – I had them put meself as proxy, yer name has not been mentioned.” He puffed himself up a little. “I may not be much of a reader, but I do have ears and a very clever brother. Believe me, Mistress Billa, I’ve learned a thing or two in me life about how things are done. And,” he bent closer to me, “if ye ever think of writing ‘nother story like that, ye can always trust me to act as yer proxy to bring it out. I swear, I’ll always look out to see that ye get yer fair share.”

 

I could merely gape, fan myself and gape again.

 

“I hope ye will, Mistress Billa. Good lit’rature, that. Better’n any of that dusty history. A soldier like me could learn to love reading.” He winked at me.

 

I laughed. Then I cried a little, because of all that fury and embarrassment and laughed again at all the stupid things I managed to get myself into and at the enterprising spirit of a certain guardsman. He put a huge tankard of ale before me and we drank and then I laughed some more, until I snorted ale out of my nose.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your comments, my dear readers! You raise some very interesting points there.
> 
> First of all, I'd like to point out that I imagine at this point the copyright laws have not yet been invented; so there is likely lots of ripping-off going on in the world. Just like there must have been in our history. Authors simply depend on the goodwill and honesty of other folk. Also, there is the question of different cultures. IMHO Hobbits are a bit more like, say, 18th-century, after all that Enlightenment has happened and all; whereas the Dwarves are more medieval and the culture and arts etc are more dependent on the patronage of the rich or high-class folks. Hence some of the mutual misunderstandings.
> 
> Therefore also, YES, the bookseller sells anything that sells. As for why did he then throw out Ori - well, porn does tend to leave a mark on your reputation and an apprentice's doings tend to leave a mark on the master. At least now he can pretend that he knows nothing.


End file.
